Page 24 of What Happens In Vegas: Jessa & Jaxon
The acrid scent of something burning jolts me awake, sending a rush of adrenaline through my system before my brain even has time to catch up. The sheets beside me are cold, the space where Jaxon had been now empty, and for one disoriented second, my mind scrambles to put the pieces together.
Then the smell intensifies, thick and unmistakable, and panic kicks in.
I throw the covers aside and reach blindly for the first thing I can find—Jaxon’s t-shirt. It’s soft, oversized and falls past my thighs. I rush down the hallway, mentally preparing for whatever disaster awaits me.
What I find is Jaxon, shirtless and cursing, waving a dish towel frantically at a smoking pot on the stove. The kitchen is hazy with smoke, the smell of burned food overwhelming.
“What are you doing?” I demand, coughing slightly.
He spins around, looking sheepish and frustrated in equal measure. “Making dinner,” he explains, gesturing to the blackened mess in the pot. “But the water boiled way faster than I expected.”
I step closer, peering into the pot. What appears to be the charred remains of spaghetti noodles are stuck to the bottom, smoking and filling my apartment with the smell of culinary disaster.
“You burned pasta?” I repeat, torn between disbelief and reluctant amusement as I take in the blackened disaster clinging to the bottom of my once perfectly functional pot.
Jaxon huffs a breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “In my defense, pasta is a lot more complicated than it looks.”
“Boiling water is complicated?”
He shoots me a glare, but there’s a grin lurking at the edges of his mouth. “It is when you fall asleep. And when no one warns you water evaporates quickly.”
I should be annoyed. My apartment smells like a failed chemistry experiment, my best pot is probably ruined, and my deep sleep was interrupted by the scent of impending disaster.
But then I look at him, barefoot, shirtless, standing in my kitchen with the expression of a man who just got his ego knocked down a peg by a pot of spaghetti. Before I can stop myself, laughter bubbles up from my chest.
“You think this is funny?” he asks, his expression shifting from embarrassment to indignation.
“I think it’s hilarious,” I admit, my laughter growing. “The great Jaxon Jamison, thwarted by spaghetti.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, fighting a smile. “I was trying to do something nice.” He takes a step closer. “You were sleeping peacefully, and I wanted to surprise you.”
The thoughtfulness of the gesture cuts through my amusement, leaving something warm and tender in its place. In all my past relationships, I can’t remember anyone ever wanting to surprise me with a home-cooked dinner.
“Well,” I say, softening, “the idea was nice, even if the execution was catastrophic.”
I move to open the windows, letting the cold air in to clear the smoke. Jaxon takes the ruined pot to the sink, running water over the blackened mess. The sizzle of hot metal meeting cold water fills the kitchen.
“I think your pot is a goner,” he says ruefully, examining the scorched bottom.
I come to stand beside him, our shoulders brushing. “It’s just a pot.”
He looks down at me. “You’re not mad?”
“No.”
His gaze drags over me, committing every inch of exposed skin to memory. “If I’d known you’d look this good in my shirt,” he muses, “I would have woken you sooner.”
The heat in his words sends a flush through me, warming my skin despite the cold air from the windows. I’m suddenly intensely aware of our state of undress—him in boxers, me in only his t-shirt.
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” he asks, stepping closer until my back is against the counter.
“Like you want to devour me.”
His smile is slow and predatory. “What if I do?”
Before I can respond, he kisses me. My body reacts before my mind catches up, molding into him as his hands slide down, gripping my thighs with effortless strength.
