The Wrong Man (Alpha Men 3)

She winced at the description, and Sam grinned unrepentantly.

“Nope. He should be thankful that I’ve gained useful experience that will contribute toward his pleasure in the bedroom.”

The thought of Lia in bed with someone else had the immediate power to wipe every trace of humor away, and Sam attempted to conceal his overwhelmingly negative reaction from her.

“But like I said,” she continued, “I doubt there’s a man of my dreams out there. I’m pursuing other goals right now.”

“Don’t let a few fucked-up dates put you off, sunshine. If you don’t wind up married with kids down the line, I’d be surprised. Any guy would be lucky to have you, Lia.”

“Thank you for saying that, Sam. But I’ve decided it’s not that important anymore. Like I said, other goals.” She considered her words and knew that they were the absolute truth. Her obsession with finding the right man and living the perfect life was waning with every step she took down this unknown path with Sam. Her self-worth was no longer tied up in being Mrs. Somebody. It was all about Dahlia McGregor and the life she was creating for herself. She pushed herself away from the door. “I’ll see you in the morning. Good night.”

She was gone before he could get his own good night out.

The following morning, she was already in the kitchen when he came downstairs wearing his running clothes.

“Morning, sunshine,” he greeted, his voice still thick with sleep. He came up behind her and hooked an arm around her waist, pulling her back to his front and dropping a kiss into the cove of her neck. Lia reached up and cupped his jaw, tilting her head to allow him greater access to her neck.

“Morning. Your breakfast will be ready in half an hour.”

“I wanted to take a quick run, think you can push it to forty-five minutes?”

“Yes. Don’t overdo it.”

“I won’t, need to save some of my energy for you.” He gave her an additional hug, stepped away, and spared a little squeeze for one of her breasts before heading out the back door.

Lia sighed and went upstairs to make up his bed and tidy up the place a bit before she started his breakfast. But she looked at the mess for a moment and snorted.

Yeah, right, she so wasn’t his maid. This inclination she had to tidy up after others had to stop. She might as well put that new resolve into practice now. Food was one thing—she wouldn’t want the guy to get malnourished, and she enjoyed cooking. But fixing other people’s messes? That was about to stop right now.

He returned close to an hour later, looking hot and sweaty and so unutterably sexy that Lia could do nothing but stare for a long moment.

“Sorry it took so long, I ran into Mason in town and we got to talking. Did I ruin breakfast?”

“Uh-uh, I haven’t started it yet. You grab a shower and I’ll fix something.”

“Thanks, sunshine.” He grinned. “You’re joining me for breakfast, right?”

“I’ve eaten.”

“I prefer having breakfast with you.”

“I’ll have a cup of coffee while you eat. We need to talk anyway.”

“That never bodes well,” he said with a frown, and she grinned.

“You’re the one who wanted to rethink the guidelines,” she reminded, and his face cleared.

“Definitely. I’ll be down in a jiff.” Lia bit back a grin at the quintessentially English expression.

He was down in less than ten minutes, wearing a pair of jeans and a gray Henley. He smelled amazing—she loved his woodsy aftershave—his hair was damp and his jaw freshly shaved. The hollows in his face were starting to fill out, and he was looking healthier and handsomer every day.

“What’s for breakfast?” he asked, squeezing her butt on his way to the table. He sat down, folded his hands on the tabletop, and watched her expectantly.

“Pancakes,” she said. She put the stack of pancakes in front of him and was gratified by the delighted smile that lit up his face.

“How did you do this?” he asked, his voice filled with boyish wonder. “They look like snowflakes. They’re amazing.”

He couldn’t stop staring at the lacy pancakes she had so painstakingly made for him, and Lia was happy that she’d gone to the effort.

“What other patterns can you make?”

“The options are pretty limited when it comes to design. I can make snowflakes, hearts, these round doily-type ones, flowers. I keep experimenting to see what other designs I can come up with. But they can be pretty disastrous at times.”

“They’re perfectly golden, how do you manage that? I burn the edges even on normal pancakes.”

“Practice. They taste good, too,” she said pointedly, pushing a bowl of freshly cut fruit toward him. “So dig in.”

“It seems a shame to eat them.”

“They were made to be eaten,” she encouraged, taking a sip of coffee and watching him over the rim as he poured syrup on his pancakes and then added the fresh fruit. She held her breath when he scooped the first forkful into his mouth and released it when his eyes closed involuntarily. That was a good sign.