It’s like she doesn’t even hardly know me.
The thought makes me laugh and as I bend over to pull the baking sheet from the fiery depths—oven mitt on my hand—the towel around my waist loosens. Falls to the floor in a puddle. Leaves me with my ass sticking out and dick dangling.
“Whoops.” I’m not even a little bit sorry standing here in just my t-shirt, oven mitt on one hand, baking sheet suspended above the stove. “My my, looks like something other than dough is rising.”
A laugh escapes her throat and she covers it with her palm, giggling. “I love you and all, but sometimes you are too much.”
The baking sheet slams down onto the hard, granite countertop, and we both startle at the sound.
“What did you just say?”
Describing her eyes as wide as saucers is a vast understatement, a woefully lacking description of the look of shock on her face. It’s as if she can’t believe the words flew out of her mouth—from her diaphragm, up her windpipe, and out her pie hole.
“I…I…don’t know.”
My eyes narrow. “Hollis Westbrooke did we not just say we were being honest with each other?” If she decides this is the time she’s going to start withholding information, I’m going to lose my goddamn mind.
I’m painfully aware of the fact that I’m standing here with my cock hanging out, of course, but that’s neither here nor there.
Plus, the dinner rolls are getting cold and they only taste delicious warm with melted butter.
“It’s only been a few weeks,” she murmurs.
“So?”
“So…no one falls in…you know, in only a few weeks.”
“Says who?”
“Says everyone.”
“Fuck everyone then.”
Hollis’s cheeks turn crimson, clutching the robe to her throat. “What are you saying Trace?”
“I’m saying what you said.” ‘Cause I’m a pussy and can’t say it either.
“Do we have to do this right now?” She moves to go around me, intending to swipe bread from the cooking sheet—but I stop her.
“For-fucking-get-it. No way. I’m not letting you off that easy.”
She demurs. “I’m shy.”
I bark out a laugh. “That’s hilarious. You’re about as shy as I am.” Which is not shy at all.
“For two seconds, can you let me have my dignity? Sheesh.”
She’s going to be stubborn about it? Fine.
I pull out a barstool at the counter for her, one for myself, and we sit, side by side in companionable silence, eating. I envision us doing this night after night, never getting bored of our conversations or banter. Never tiring of seeing her sweet face.
I catch her glancing down at my lap and her brows shooting up.
“You’re not even going to put pants on?”
“Nope.”
“You’re just going to rest your balls right on that chair?”
“Yup.”
She shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
We’re halfway through our meal when a knock sounds on my front door—not the doorbell, but a knock, and I wonder who the hell it could be because everyone I know comes barging in like they own the place.
It wouldn’t be Tripp; he’s been long gone for the better part of an hour—not that he’ll stay away for too long. Dude loves free food.
I rise, wrap the bath towel around my waist, excuse myself, and go to see who’s at the front door.
To say I’m shocked to see Thomas Westbrooke standing there is a gross understatement. Gray hair, pressed slacks, ironed shirt, and a Chicago Steam tie, the stuffy son of a bitch must have just come from the stadium. While most people know how to separate work from their personal life, he doesn’t appear to be one of them.
I brace myself in the doorway, leaning against the jamb. “You’re a few hours late—she was at the police station hours ago filling out her report. She’s fine, by the way. No injuries, just a bit shaken up.”
I don’t give a fuck if he’s my boss; he doesn’t own me and I’m under contract. Last I checked, there was no clause regarding not letting him inside my house.
Westbrooke purses his lips. “Is she here?”
I smirk. “Of course she is. I’ve been taking care of her.”
As his nostrils flare at my innuendo, his eyes glance down to the towel wrapped around my waist. “May I come in?”
Mother may I…
“I don’t know. Let me check with the boss—one second.” I close the door, so it’s ajar and pad back into the kitchen. She’s stuffing chicken into her gullet. “Babe, your dad is here.”
“My dad?” Hollis sets down her utensil and wipes her mouth with the napkin on her lap. “Why?”
I shrug. “Don’t know. Do you want me to let him in or kick his ass out?” I’m busting skulls today. Don’t stop me now.
Hollis gives me one of her classic eye rolls. “It’s my dad—of course, you should let him in.”
I grunt. “Fine, but I’ll be watching him.” I do a two-prong finger motion between my eyes and hers before proceeding to the door. “She said to let you in.”