Page 56 of Star Claimed Omega
Fokk, it was morning.
She had slept through a night cycle.
Shaking her head in disbelief, she slid from bed and wrapped the soft robe she found on a chair nearby around herself, savoring the silken lining sliding against her skin.
With tentative steps, she padded out of the guest room and into the open dining area of Santi’s cabin and came to an abrupt stop.
She blinked at a table overflowing with abundance, breathing in the scent of food and brewedkahawastirred.
Golden flatbread folded into quarters beside a clay dish of scrambledfreekeheggs laced with wild herbs.
Fried haloumi cheese glistened alongside roasted cherry tomatoes and purple sweet potato hash.
Small bowls of berry compote, fig preserves, and churned butter framed the spread.
She gasped, but it wasn’t the feast that arrested her breath.
It was him.
Santi stood at the stove in his massive kitchen, broad-shouldered and barefoot, clad only in a T-shirt and shorts.
His dark hair was charmingly mussed, looking as though he had just run a hand through it.
He held a pair of tongs in one hand, flipping a final round of sausages in the pan.
His gaze lifted, and when it met hers, a slow, crooked grin unfurled.
‘Mi sol, didn’t expect you up so early.’
‘The delicious aromas got to me.’
She clutched the robe tighter around herself, aware of her bare legs and the flush blooming up her throat.
‘I see that,’ he murmured, eyes darkening as they swept down and back up again her body, unapologetically. ‘Sit.’
She obeyed, nestling into the corner seat at the long table.
He joined her moments later, now with a fresh towel draped over one shoulder, and loaded her plate before setting it in front of her.
‘You made all this?’
‘I cook to relax,’ he rasped, shrugging, then passed her a steaming cup ofkahawa.
This man.
She took a sip, the bitter, rich liquid warming her all the way down. ‘Sante. This is amazing. I’ve never had anyone do this for me.’
They got into the food and ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, until his gaze fell on her once more.
‘No one’s ever whipped up breakfast for you before?’ he rasped, tone casual but eyes sharp.
She shook her head, smiling. ‘Not really.’
‘Not even a boyfriend?’
Soleil froze with a forkful of sweetroot halfway to her mouth. ‘Never had one,’ she confessed.
She’d slept with men, a few fumbling nights withkinaiswho wanted nothing past the quick hit of ecstasy, every encounter born of ache and loneliness.
