Page 2 of Sheltering Lawson
“Should we call—”
“No,” I whispered coming awake and then sitting up abruptly, pushing up and wedging myself into the corner of the sofa as I looked from one puzzled and worried male face to another. “I don’t need anyone. I’m fine. Just a little dizzy.” At that moment, my stomach made the most god-awful rumble, the man standing at the end of the sofa elevated his brows. He was tall with a thick shock of black hair, his features handsomely defined with a pair of blue eyes that were both sharp and concerned. He wore an apron tied around the waist of a pair of faded blue jeans, his short-sleeved shirt a soft blue tone.
But it was the man sitting in the chair next to me that made my heart skip, then triple beat.
He was a forbidding wall of muscle, probably as tall as the man at the end of the couch. He also had black hair, but it was close cropped instead of shaggy, and his eyes were a mix of blue and green. His expression was also concerned, his eyes softer, warmer. The heat of them sent a frisson of fire down my spine. He was also wearing a pair of jeans, his V-neck shirt showing the smooth column of his throat. He had a coating of dark stubble that comprised a silky just-there beard, framing a sensual mouth and fine lips. My stomach jumped, then decided to growl once more.
“You sound pretty hungry there,” the man said, glancing at the guy standing at the end of the sofa. “I’m Ethan Fairchild and this is Braxton Outlaw. He owns the place.”
I nodded, not wanting to give up my name, at least the one I was going by, but knowing that would be odd and rude. “Lawson Edwards.”
“You looked peaked. When was the last time you had a decent meal?” His eyes didn’t look sharp for nothing.
I sat there trying to remember.
“That’s too damn long,” he said gruffly. “Let me whip you up something. I’ll be right back.” He left what I realized must be his office. There was a desk and computer in here, a few chairs in front of the desk, a whiteboard with a bunch of scribbling of which the word “crab” was the only one I could make out.
“Brax is the best cook around town, well, except for Samantha.”
“Samantha?”
“Yeah, she owns Imogene’s, an eatery just past the center of town. Her pies are the best.”
“You pimping for another cook?” Braxton asked with a chiding tone. He set a plate of blueberry pancakes, scrambled eggs, sausage and toast in my lap, handing me a fork. “Go on. Dig in. We’ve eaten.”
“But I can’t pay—”
“Don’t worry about that right now. Just eat. My place. My rules.”
I looked at Ethan. “He’s pushy, bossy and grumpy most of the time.”
“You love working for me,” he scoffed.
“Yeah, that, too.”
“Coffee or tea?” he asked, urging me with one of his hands below my elbow. “Girl, start shoveling.”
“Coffee?”
“Please.”
“Sugar and cream?”
“Yes, please, both.”
I dug into the food and at the first bite, I groaned softly. The pancakes were so fluffy and delicious, the syrup an explosion of maple, the butter so rich and creamy. I closed my eyes and savored each chew. Ethan hadn’t been joking. This guy could cook.
When I opened my eyes, I swallowed hard. Ethan was watching me with the kind of intensity that made me nervous. It wasn’t lewd or derogatory, but sensual, enjoying my reaction. He glanced away and cleared his throat.
“Good, right?”
I smiled and nodded. I wasn’t used to this much interaction on a one to one basis. I was unsocial for a reason. When people get familiar, they asked too many questions. I hadn’t stopped long enough to give anyone the time of day. People also remembered you if you bonded and that was information I didn’t want them to have if and when my pursuers caught up to me.
I focused on my plate and the food. My stomach was clenching and now it had nothing to do with hunger.
“I bartend for Braxton,” he offered, and I knew he was just making conversation. It was there in his face that he was trying to put me at ease. It made me wonder if I looked half out of my mind with the fear that lurked in my shadow.
“People drink this early in the morning?”
