“I’ll grab the pan,” she said, scooting down and pulling it out of the cupboard. He took it from her and placed it on the stove top.
“Take a seat,” he suggested.
“You sure I can’t help?”
“I’m pretty confident I can handle an omelet, Harper. But you can help by showing me where everything is.”
A minute later, they were both silent as he broke the eggs into a large glass bowl and whipped them with a fork until they were creamy. He poured a spoonful of oil into the pan, then poured the eggs in, swishing them around until they were clinging to the bottom of the pan.
He pulled the grater out of the utensil drawer and slid the cheese against it, tiny strings raining down into the bowl. Even after the craziness of today, Harper couldn’t help but smile as she watched him work. He was so damn capable.
It was making her hot, again.
“I don’t think a guy’s ever cooked for me before,” she told him. “Most of my exes only knew how to order takeout.”
“Maybe that’s the different between boys and men.” He shrugged. “Nutrition is important. Takeout is okay once in a while, but if it’s your main source of food then eventually you’re going to get sick.”
“Do you cook for yourself every night?” She placed her chin on her palm, her eyes still following his every move.
“Mostly. It’s pretty easy when I’m on days. I have my groceries delivered so I have a choice of what to eat. When I’m on night shift I try to at least cook breakfast before I head for bed.” He glanced at he
r. “Where are the plates?”
She pointed at the cupboard hanging over the counter and he reached up to take two out. His t-shirt lifted with the movement, and she swallowed hard.
It was impossible not to remember the delicious weight of him as he held himself over her on his sofa, their bodies pressed together. And those lips, those teasing lips. She wanted to feel them all over her again.
“Can you tuck your t-shirt in?” she asked him, pulling her eyes away, determined not to let the hormones win this time.
He grinned and tucked the fabric into his waistband, as though he knew exactly the effect he was having on her.
“And maybe next time you can wear some looser jeans,” she suggested, on a roll now. “The kind that don’t hug your butt and thighs like they want to be your best friend.”
James laughed. “You want me to wear baggy clothes?”
“Only when you’re around me.” Harper traced a vein in the marble worktop. “It’s for your own protection. From my crazy hormones. You don’t want a repeat of today.”
“Don’t I?”
She looked up, her eyes catching his. He held her gaze as he sprinkled the cheese onto the omelet, expertly folding it before sliding it onto the plate. Grabbing a knife and fork from the drawer, he slid the plate over to her. “Eat,” he said, nodding at the food.
She speared a forkful and slid it between her lips, tasting the seasoned eggs and oozing cheese as they lingered on her tongue. “Dear god, is there nothing you can’t do?” she asked him between mouthfuls. “Saving lives, cooking. I bet next you’ll tell me you can do your own laundry, too.”
“What kind of guys have you been hanging out with?” he asked, a smile curling his lips as he cracked more eggs for himself.
“The wrong ones clearly,” she mumbled after another mouthful. “Actors, mostly.”
“Ones who can’t cook?” He shook his head. “It’s not rocket science. I’m thirty-four-years-old, Harper. If I couldn’t cook or do laundry there’d be something wrong with me. Sounds like maybe you set your bars too low.”
“Story of my life.” She shrugged. “If you don’t have expectations you don’t get disappointed.”
“But you also sell yourself short. Don’t you think you deserve the good things in life?”
She swallowed the last mouthful of omelet and put her silverware on the plate with a clang. “That was delicious, thank you.” She stood to grab herself a drink, but he was already in motion, grabbing her a glass.
“What can I get you?”
“How did you know I wanted a drink?”