Checking her phone before she went back to the chicken, she was disappointed to see Lane hadn’t replied yet. She’d sent the text as a precaution after arriving almost an hour ago, a warning that she was in his house while he slept, figuring he would see it and come out to greet her. But seriously, why would he reply to it now when he could walk right into the kitchen and see her?
When she’d first shown up, she’d knocked on his door for what felt like minutes before giving up. Yes, she’d known he hid a spare key in a small planter on his front porch. Wren told her that much. Yes, she’d known she shouldn’t take advantage of her knowledge and unlock his door, but she’d done it anyway, telling herself it was for the greater good.
He had to know she was in his house by now, right? And if he really wanted her gone, he could’ve texted her back and let her know he wasn’t feeling up to it. Or—he appreciated the gesture but if she could just leave the food wrapped up on the kitchen counter, he’d eat it later. Thanks very much, bye.
Delilah frowned. Yeah, that’s exactly what he would tell her. But she wasn’t about to let him get away with that response. No, thank you. She was tired of the runaround. She might’ve told him he needed to make the next move, but knowing Lane, that would never happen. When they’d last talked, she had a feeling he liked the forward way she behaved. That was the first time they’d ever made so much progress. If only Wren hadn’t come along and interrupted them . . .
Blowing out a harsh breath, she grabbed a piece of chicken from the pan with tongs and turned it over, wiping her forehead with the back of her free hand. It was hot business, cooking fried chicken.
“Jesus, Dee, what the hell are you doing?”
Delilah screamed and turned to find Lane standing in the kitchen entryway, clad in nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs, clutching a gun. She dropped the tongs, which clattered on the granite countertop, and rested her other hand against her chest as she inhaled a shuddery breath. Her heart raced and her entire body shook. “Lane. You scared me.”
He padded into the kitchen, setting the gun gently onto the counter. “You scared me. I thought someone broke into my house.”
“I tried knocking when I got here. Didn’t you get my texts?” She flicked a glance at the cooking chicken for fear the meat would burn.
“When I woke up, I didn’t bother checking my phone. I just grabbed my gun and snuck out here.” He looked sheepish as he scratche
d at the center of his very beautiful, very sexy chest. She really needed to focus on the chicken and not all that exposed skin. Or the fact that he was wearing only underwear—briefs that fit him so tightly, they left nothing to the imagination.
Lane was packing some serious heat in his pants. Not that she was surprised.
“I thought I was dreaming at first,” he continued as he glanced around the kitchen, his brows furrowing. “In fact, I was dreaming of eating a drumstick at a picnic by the lake. I could smell the chicken in my freaking sleep and it made my stomach growl.”
Her gaze dropped to the body part he spoke of, lingering there. He had nice abs. He had a nice everything.
“Are you hungry?” she asked softly.
He actually tilted his nose up and sniffed the air like a dog. “Starved.”
“Well, go put your gun away, get some clothes on, and wash your hands.” The casual request for him to put his gun away almost made her laugh. This entire situation was sort of odd, truth be told. But she could never claim her relationship with Lane was normal.
When he stood there staring at her dumbfounded, she said, “Go. Dinner’s almost ready.” She made a shooing motion with her hands when he frowned, still absently scratching his chest with those long, capable-looking fingers of his.
“You broke into my house to make me dinner?” He sounded surprised—and baffled. Not that she could blame him.
Delilah grabbed the tongs and plucked the pieces of chicken out of the crackling-hot oil, setting them on a plate covered in paper towels. She clicked off the gas burner and turned to face him once more, not surprised at all to see that he hadn’t moved a glorious muscle.
Allowing her another opportunity to check out every naked inch of skin on display just for her.
“I didn’t break in,” she reminded him. “I know where you hide your spare key.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. Well, at least he seemed amused. “Oh, and that makes it so much better.”
“It’s not breaking and entering.”
“Yeah, but I’m pretty sure this falls under trespassing.” His face suddenly looked like it could’ve been carved out of granite. “Seriously, Dee. I could’ve shot you.”
“Yeah, I sort of thought of that,” she said softly, making a little face. She really hoped he wasn’t mad, but wow, she’d done a stupid thing.
Like, severely stupid.
“If I’d done that . . . ” He reached out and gripped the edge of the counter with both hands, like he needed to hold on to something for fear he’d fall. “I don’t know if I could’ve ever forgiven myself.”
“Well, it didn’t happen, now did it?” She smiled and went to him, grabbing his shoulders and turning him around. Her gaze dropped to his backside. Lingering there.
Oh, he was a perfect male specimen. His butt was well curved but not over the top, and the way the black cotton clung to his cheeks, well. She was half tempted to fan herself in an attempt to get her overheated hormones in check.