Page 13 of Tinder Embrace
He held up two fingers. I pulled the half and half from the fridge, doctoring each of our mugs before handing him one.
Davis's gaze met mine as our fingers brushed. The intimacy of the moment sent fresh flutters arrowing to my belly. Slowly, he took a sip from his mug, grunting in what I interpreted as appreciation. From Davis, it felt like warm approval.
"How's the ankle?" he asked.
I raised one shoulder. "Feeling a little better." I arched my brows. "Definitely well enough to help you with farm chores. What's on the docket today, boss?"
Davis's eyes narrowed. I did a shuffle step, complete with jazz hands. "Ta-da! See? I'm much better today."
He grunted, pointing. "Sit."
His throaty command sent a flash of awareness tingling through me.
"How do you like your eggs?" he asked, pulling a frying pan from the drawer beneath his oven.
The smooth motion drew his jeans taut over his glutes, emphasizing his massive thighs.
Yes, I checked out his butt. So sue me.
He was adorably rumpledandcooking for me. The combination was deadly to my poor, languishing libido.
"Fertilized," I muttered absently, caught up in fantasies I had no business entertaining about my short-term roomie.
Davis turned, his silent glare sending a flush beneath my cheeks. I coughed. "Fried. I saidfried. I like 'em stomped on, yolks broken, the whole shebang."
"Figures," he muttered, turning back to the stove.
"What figures?" I asked.
Should I be poking the bear? Absolutely not. After all, he was feeding me. I didn't have any business being picky. Especially not after getting caught ogling him. But something about his muttering flipped my switch. I could handle a heck of a lot and maintain my sweet-as-pie attitude, but when I hit my limit: watch out.
"It's probably how all the poor saps across town feel after you get done flirting with them. Broken and stomped on."
I pulled back, instinctively retreating from his charge. Sure, I was bubbly, but my chatter was more friendly than flirting. Except when it came to him. Judging by the lack of men asking me out, most weren’t confused. Did he not understand the difference?
It might be the longest sentence I'd gotten out of Davis, but any sense of triumph was overshadowed by hurt.
"I'm a friendly person," I defended. "It's my personality."
"Sure it is," he said. His easy dismissal stung. "People pleasing is all well and good until someone gets their heart broken."
"Someone?" I asked. "You have a particular someone in mind there, Davis? That's an awful lot of accusation for so early in the morning. I didn't know you cared."
"I hear things," he mumbled, cracking an egg into the pan.
I huffed. "Sure. Campfire is a small place. Gossip is practically the town's only hobby. But it doesn't mean you have to believe everything you hear – especially about your friends," I added pointedly.
He turned around, the surprise in his expression gripping my heart. "Are we friends, Bee?"
"Yes," I insisted, without thought.
Skepticism shone in his dark eyes. He grunted, spinning back to our eggs.
My shoulders slumped, my playful mood gone.I'dthought we were friends. Clearly, Davis disagreed.
I couldn’t figure out what it would take to crack his stubborn shell. Did he expect me to swear fealty in blood or learn a secret handshake to earn his friendship? Was his definition wildly different from mine? In my world, friends helped friends out when they needed it. Whether it was catching a wayward balloon or stepping up to assist with farm chores. We didn’t let each other flounder.
Bewilderment swamped me. He seemed intent on pushing me away, denying the tentative friendship I thought we’d forged. The last ingredient of a real friendship was accepting each other’s flaws, and, clearly, he couldn’t get over mine.
