Page 35 of Devil's Iris
“You’re awake. Great timing.” I turn to grab the hangover tea from the counter—it’s cooled to drinkable temperature after sitting for over an hour. “Drink this. It will help with your hangover.”
She frowns as she accepts the mug but sips anyway—then immediately her face twists in disgust. “Whatatrocityis this?”
I chuckle. “Come on, it’s not that bad.”
She cringes. “Trust me, it is. You don’t have any sugar or syrup?”
I make my voice stern. “If I did, I would have added it. Now drink up.” Her lips thin, but she dutifully tosses the tea down in one go, shuddering as she swallows. “Good girl,” I say, and throw in a wink for good measure.
She rolls her eyes with attitude, but a splash of pink colors her cheeks. I frown.Why is she blushing?Women are fascinating, complicated creatures.
I set my culinary triumph in front of her, pride swelling in my chest. “I hope you’re hungry.”
“Starving,” she declares, sliding onto a stool. “Thank you.”
I watch as she forks some eggs into her mouth. Her brows pinch, and even though she tries to hide it, I catch the twitch in her eye and the tiny grimace that flickers across her face before she forces it smooth. “That bad?”
She swallows and flashes a smile up at me. A fake smile. “No, no, it’s great.”
Christ, she’s an awful liar.
Without thinking, I round the island, pluck her fork from her hand, and try a bite. I wince. The pancake is tough to chew, the eggs way too salty—and, somehow, there actually are bits of shell in them. “Fuck.”
“First time cooking?” Her smile is gentle now, genuinely amused.
“You should see how many attempts are in that trash. Don’t smile—no, don’t laugh.” But I’m fighting my own grin as she does exactly that, her eyes going so light they’re almost blue in the morning light. The sound bubbles out of her, warm and unrestrained, and before I can notice anything else, she’s sliding off the stool?—
—right into my space. My heart gives a hard thud as blood rushes south, my cock thickening with how close she is. Her laughter fades as she realizes our proximity. Her pupils dilate,and for a moment, the air crackles with possibility. Then she plants her hands on my chest and shoves, and I can’t help the chuckle that slips out as I step back to let her pass.
She clears her throat and goes straight to the trash bin, clicking her tongue as she peers in. “Cooking doesn’t seem to be your forte, darling. Looks like I’m the cook in this relationship.”
“Darling?” The endearment grabs my full attention.
“No? You prefer something else? Babe? Baby? Sweetheart? Or something in Italian? I’ll have to look up some terms of endearments then.” Her voice is playful, but she avoids my gaze as she starts cleaning up my disaster.
“What are you talking about? What are youdoing?” But I’m mesmerized. Everything she says and does just draws me deeper into her orbit.
“If we’re going to pretend to be in love, I need something sweet to call you, right? You already call mebellezza.”
She’s so damn cute I have to smile.
“And as for what I’m doing—I’m making us breakfast. To thank you for the tea. Horrible as it tasted, I have to admit I’m already feeling better.”
She moves around the kitchen with surprising confidence, barefoot and relaxed, humming under her breath as she flips something in the pan. I offer to help once—maybe twice—but she waves me off each time without even looking up.
What took me over an hour and multiple failed attempts, she accomplishes in only thirty minutes. And somehow without making a single mess.
She sets a plate in front of me, stacked with golden pancakes and fluffy scrambled eggs, steam still rising off them, and my mouth waters even before I lift my fork. It smells heavenly. Then I take a bite, and my eyes close involuntarily.It tastes exactly how my mom used to make it.
“What? Is it not good?”
I force a smile as I open my eyes. “No, it’s perfect.” My voice comes out rough with unexpected emotion, so I clear my throat. “Thank you.”
She beams as she takes the seat across from me. “You’re welcome. And as of today, you’re officially banished from the kitchen.”
Then, suddenly, she leans forward and brushes the back of her hand down my cheek. The simple touch electrifies every nerve ending, and my fork slips out of my hand to my plate with a clatter, my throat closing up.
Her eyes widen at my reaction, and she jerks her hand back. “Sorry, you had some flour.” She shows me the white powder on her hand as evidence.
