I’m up and out of the bed so fast that I knock my shoulder on the doorway.
“Motherfucker.”Dammit, that hurt.
I pick up the pace as I move down the hallway, passing by a few other rooms without even a glance. I couldn’t tell you what’s inside, but this place is beautiful. Expensive. But it’s at the end of the hall that has me stumbling to a halt. He’s here. I blow out the breath that I was holding. He’s here. I’m safe.
I furrow my brow, and the words are out before I realize it. “Why are you here?”
“Did you just call me a motherfucker?” he asks without turning around. “Rude. Even for you, G.” He sways back and forth in front of the oven’s stovetop. His tone sounds light, not the usual grumpy growl.
“What are you doing here, Henry?” I ground out. I hate not knowing what’s happening.
“Making breakfast,” he says in another cheery tone. “Well, brunch, really. It’s almost one in the afternoon. Local time, at least.”
“Where is local time?” I ask as I move closer to his brunch spread.
“Cayman Islands.”
I stop my path, looking around the room. “Fuck,” I whisper to myself. I move to sit on the island stool and then stare at the food before me. Fruits and slices of bread are set out as if we’ve just stumbled into a resort’s continental buffet.
“Now what?” I ask, loud enough to make him pause what he was doing. He doesn’t turn around right away, though. Instead, he finishes stirring whatever he’s cooking in the small pot.
He tilts his head to the side, acknowledging that he heard me.
Breaking the silence, he finally says, “We wait.”
I play around with the idea of waiting. I try to work out what it is he’s doing here right now, and the only obvious explanation is he was the only way I could get out of town so fast. He knows how to fly, and I needed to be taken out of the situation. Bea must have asked him to move me quickly. Why would she ask him, though? Why not another agent?
But as I sit there and try to work out the logic, I’m distracted by Henry’s shirtless body. The now massive tattoo that runs slightly down the back of his left shoulder, but keeps going farther on the other side, down his chest and along the side of his torso. I’m a bit pissed I haven’t done work on it. I see some feathered lines that could have been cleaner.
My eyes follow his well-sculpted back to a pair of low-slung gray sweats, cut off at the knees. My mouth waters. Could be the view, or the smell of apples and onions that are blanketing the room.
A French press is steeping coffee on the counter behind him. I hear the crashing waves colliding with the wind outside, and I’m just noticing now the sound of steel drums and guitar guiding Bob Marley’s promises of every little thing being alright.Touché, Bobby.
Maybe some of that optimism is seeping through because I’m smiling right now as I gawk at two beautifully round and muscular ass cheeks gliding from left to right, flexing up and down. Does it make me a bad person that I want to slap them like bongos to the beat of the song? The song that will always remind me of him. This man is nearly impossible to ignore, because aside from the reggaeton Magic Mike show happening mere feet away, he’s also cooking for me. He always cooks for me.
It doesn’t go unnoticed that he makes me a vegetarian option at every Sunday dinner with the family. I never let myself swoon over it. I recognize that Henry is a people pleaser. That food is his way of doing that. Pleasing the people who matter to him. But with no one watching but me, I’m swooning. Hard.
Swaying his perfectly sculpted body, Henry Montana Riggs is in paradise, with me, making me brunch and humming. I watch for a few seconds more because, truthfully, I never allow myself to look at him for too long. Too manywhat ifsandmaybe justsalways circle my head when I stare for too long at this man. I’ve schooled myself into only brief visual assaults, nothing more than a few beats. But we’re not in Strutt’s Peak, and it would honestly be a crime against humanity not to appreciate the spectacular aura of this man. In those shorts.
Fucking hell, he’s definitely going commando.The two dimples on his lower back are like little divots that deserve a celebratory kiss, marking the end of his back muscles and the beginning of that toned tush. I lick my lips. I’ll definitely be using this material when I’m playing DJ Clitty Rubs later.
The clank of something being put into the sink startles me. Seriously, what’s wrong with me? The worst possible thing that could have happened actually happened, and I’m thinking about sex. It’s a new low.
I keep berating myself as I watch Henry scoop out a perfectly poached egg from swirling, boiling water. He places it on top of orange, green, and purple vegetables in a bowl. Then he repeats the same process with the second poached egg in a second bowl. He pushes one in front of me, turning around and searching for the utensil drawer, and giving me a fork a moment later.
I take a bite of crisp apple with salty, sweet potato, and the kick of onion assaults my tastebuds.Geez, I will put anything in my mouth that this man makes.I hum over the next bite. My eyes close.
“Good?”
When I open my eyes, I find him with a smirk. It’s laced with satisfaction.
I just nod and shovel another forkful into my mouth. Truthfully, I’m starving. But really, it’s completely possible I may just say something utterly vulnerable, like,“the way you cook for me is a fucking art form.”Or,“you’re perfect.”
“What is this?” I mumble over a forkful.
He sprinkles a pinch of salt over the egg, then takes a pepper mill and grinds a half turn of pepper over it. “Give me the fork.”
I pause and then hand the fork to him.