Chapter 8
Justice
My short conversation with Chevelle runs through my mind as I return to Brody’s bedroom. I lift a brow, heart slaughtering my ribcage. “You’re gonna find another bed to sleep in, right?” I ask.
“Nae. It’s way past dinnertime. Let’s eat.” He pats his belly.
“But—”
“I’m hungry. Ye hungry?”
The suggestion starts the engine roaring in my stomach. “Okay.”
“Okay?” He grabs his keys. “Where should we go?”
“Only thing open right now is last call and Denny’s.”
“Ye a fan of that place?”
“Not since the Grand Slam was $2.99. Their pancakes are like card—”
“Cardboards, eh?” Brody finishes my sentiment. Rubbing his beard, he adds, “Ye know, sounds like ye haven’t been there in ages. Me either.”
“Yeah, a long, long time ago.”
“Ya wanna see if those pancakes still give papercuts?”
Obnoxious laughter consumes me as I shake my head no. His chuckle reverberates through my chest, arousal unfurling inside of me. The coupling of his laugh and my body’s natural reaction commences round two for me. This is different, and it damn sure feels good, like butterflies swarming around my belly. I gesture between us. “Earlier, we coexisted on differing planets. Miles away. Must be a full moon outside now.”
Brody deposits his keys back on the dresser. “Come on. I’m not convinced ye still have had a good pancake, Denny’s or not.”
“Oh really? I’ve lived all over the nation, remember?”
I follow Brody from his old bedroom, my eyes drinking him in freely. Stacks of muscles run along his back, more sexy muscles than I have names for. He’s under my severe scrutiny. The scene, the background music that should be playing in my head, everything fades away.
Oh, and his ass! That ass belongs to Hercules. My fingers beg to claw at his ass. My teeth sink into the sinewy of his broad shoulders while he thrusts.
I freeze. My surroundings intensify. Namely him. I have to backpedal. I’d kept walking when he hadn’t. The kitchen comes into view. Compared to the foyer where we entered, the kitchen is darker. I’m confident we traveled downstairs and through the house. But If I were a contestant on a game show and I were asked to name an object I passed by on the way into the kitchen for a whopping million bucks—
Guess who’d still be po’?
This chick.
I rest a hand on the smooth, wooden countertop, crossing one ankle over the other. Am I being subtle? My walls squeeze as I take in the rest of the kitchen. The cabinets are a rustic blue. A few of them have glass doors. A breakfast nook is in a corner. The massive windows surrounding it will bring in the sunshine come morning. The island in the center is the biggest I’ve ever seen in my entire life. It makes me yearn for holidays with the family. The area is a display of wealth and warmth.
At the Viking refrigerator, Brody pulls out a hunk of butter, a glass container of eggs, heavy cream, and milk.
“You got a recipe?” I ask.
The look he gives me is equal parts insult, confidence, and smug—always arrogant.
“Alright.” I fold my arms.
“Nae rest for ye, sweetcakes. Get yer arse over to that door next to the one marked pantry.” He gestures with his square jaw. “Grab some alcohol, mix us drinks. Wit do I look like cooking for us by myself?”
Though I don’t mind, his flippant tone prompts my comeback. “You’d look like the perfect image of domesticity while cooking. But don’t worry, I got this.”
I walk toward a set of double doors. One indeed has Pantry scrawled in the frosted glass. I open the other. “Wow,” I mutter. There’s rum—and ten times the amount of whisky. Labels I’ve never seen neatly line the shelves. I pluck up the Glenn’s Vodka. From the size of the kitchen, there must be ingredients for a good Bloody Mary. Besides, I’d wake the entire house by turning on the blender for another concoction.