Page 49 of Brody
Holy hell.
I froze in the doorway, my breakfast greeting dying on my lips.The spatula in his hand gleamed as he flipped something, muscles shifting beneath his shirt with each movement.A strip of tanned skin peeked above his low-slung sweatpants when he reached for seasoning.I swallowed hard, finding my mouth suddenly desert-dry.The room’s temperature seemed to spike ten degrees.I pressed my thighs together, trying to quell the sudden, insistent throb between them that had nothing to do with hunger—at least, not for food.
I dug my nails into my palms, the sharp sting grounding me.Three deep breaths.Focus on the pain, not the heat.Not the way my skin suddenly felt too tight, too sensitive.Not the way my body leaned toward his without permission.Yet here I stood, rooted to the floor, counting heartbeats to keep from staring at the curve of his shoulders.
But my treacherous body had other ideas.My nipples peaked against my shirt.The fabric was suddenly unbearably rough against sensitive skin.Heat pooled between my thighs, a molten ache that made me clench involuntarily.Years of meaningless encounters and hollow relationships were making themselves known with embarrassing clarity; none of them had ever made me wet with just a look.
Richard’s face flashed in my mind, the neurosurgeon from last year’s conference who’d taken me to dinner three nights in a row.Intelligent, attractive, accomplished.His hands had known what they were doing, technically perfect in their movements.Yet I’d lain awake afterward, staring at the hotel ceiling, feeling hollow as always.Like eating food that looked perfect but had no taste.The diplomat in Bangkok.The biochemist in Berlin.All of them blurred together in memory, a string of men who’d touched my body but never reached whatever lay beneath.None of them had made my skin burn from a single accidental brush of fingers, the way Brody’s presence across the room now set every nerve ending alight.
Thiswas what I’d been missing.This bone-deep recognition.This overwhelming need made every other man feel like settling.
“I can hear your stomach from here,” he said without turning, his voice carrying that morning roughness that sent an inconvenient shiver down my spine.“Coffee’s fresh.”
He turned then, and the full impact of his eyes hit me like a physical blow.But it was the concern written across his features that caught me off guard.
His gaze lingered over me.“You’re dressed for the COL already?”
“Yup and packed,” I said, walking right up to him and snagging a piece of bacon from the heaping platter.“Got everything we’ll need for overnight in the wilderness.”
A smile played at the corner of his mouth, transforming his rugged features.“You won’t need much of that.There are Fae cabins throughout the COL territory.Fully stocked vacation homes, basically.”
I paused mid-chew.“Cabins?In the wilderness?”
“The Bane pack checks on them regularly,” he explained, flipping another piece of bacon with practiced ease.Heat radiated from his body as he moved closer.“We make sure they stay stocked with food and supplies.Been doing it for generations.”
“So we’re not exactly roughing it then,” I said, trying to hide my relief.My wilderness experience was extensive, but comfortable shelter always beat tents and sleeping bags.
“They’ve got everything—refrigerators, stoves, even running water.All powered by whisper generators.”His eyes locked with mine, the intensity sending a flutter through my stomach that had nothing to do with hunger.
“Whisper generators?”The words came out breathier than I intended.
“Fae technology,” he said with a shrug that made the muscles in his shoulders ripple beneath his thin shirt.“Silent, efficient.Don’t ask me how they work.No one really knows.”
“So I can leave the protein bars and camping gear?”I asked, imagining lightening my pack considerably.
“Keep the hiking gear and first aid,” he said, his expression turning serious, eyes darkening with concern that made my heart skip.“The terrain is still dangerous.But yeah, we won’t starve.Some of those cabins are better stocked than my own kitchen.”He paused for a beat.“How’s your head?”he asked, moving closer.“Any dizziness?Nausea?”
His fingers brushed my temple where I’d hit the pavement, the gentle touch sending electricity racing through my system.I had to bite back a gasp at the contact.
“I’m fine,” I managed.“No serious damage.”
“You sure?”Those eyes searched mine with an intensity that made my stomach flutter.“Concussions are nothing to mess with.”
The genuine worry creasing his forehead sent warmth blooming beneath my ribs, a flutter so unexpected I took an involuntary step backward.My spine hit the doorframe with a thud.Too close.Too much.I crossed my arms, creating a physical barrier between us as I forced my expression into clinical neutrality.Professional distance was safer than whatever that warmth promised.
He’s respectably concerned.That’s all.
My traitorous stomach chose that moment to growl.Loudly.
I poured coffee into a handmade mug, the ceramic still warm from the cupboard.“You cook a lot for someone who lives alone in the mountains.”
His hands stilled on the spatula.Something flickered across his expression—pain, maybe, or regret so deep it had carved permanent lines around his eyes.
“Keeps me busy,” he said finally, his voice carefully neutral.“Gives me something to focus on besides…”
“Besides what?”
A muscle ticked in his jaw.“Besides regrets I can’t fix.”
