I set to work while he watches, elbows on the counter. His eyes track my every move. Not in a creepy way, exactly. But curiously. As if he hasn’t spent much time watching someone cook. There’s a heat in his steady gaze that makes me painfully aware of my leggings and the messy bun on top of my head.
I can feel the weight of his stare, the warmth spreading through my chest. I hate that I don’t hate it.
My first instinct was right. He’s trouble. I can tell.
When I pull out the eggnog, he perks up. “What’s that?”
“Eggnog for the pancakes. It is Christmas, after all. I thought it would be more festive.”
“Festive,” he repeats, then grins. “You ever drink that stuff straight?”
“Occasionally.”
“Guess I’m about to live dangerously.”
Before I can stop him, he unscrews the cap and tilts it back.
“Oh, for crying out loud?—”
He keeps going until the carton’s empty, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and looks ridiculously pleased with himself.
“Delicious,” he declares.
Thirty seconds later, he goes pale.
“Oh no,” I say flatly.
He wavers. “I think I’m gonna?—”
“Don’t you dare.”
I help him to the trash can before he spews his guts. Doing my best not to breathe in the scent, I pat his back.
Once he’s gotten everything out, I help him back to the couch.
He collapses into it with a groan, a hand on his stomach. “That was worth it.”
“Really?” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You’re impossible.”
“I preferlegendary.”
“You keep this up, you’ll be deceased”
I grab a glass of ginger ale and a cool cloth from the freezer, then kneel beside the couch. He opens one eye, looks at me like I’ve descended from heaven.
“You’re an angel,” he murmurs.
“For the moment, I’m your nurse.”
“A sexy nurse,” he corrects.
I roll my eyes but dab his forehead anyway. Even half-dead he’s unfairly gorgeous. His dark lashes are long, his brown hair unruly.
The heat crawling up my neck has nothing to do with the fire.
“You should sleep it off,” I say softly, feeling more than a pang of gentleness.
“Think I will,” he mumbles.