I’m thinking of going left, toward the study, but then I catch a whiff of something delicious. It’s pretty unlikely that Hunter’s wearing an apron, but I’m so hungry, I don’t care who’s cooking. I come down off the bottom stair and follow my nose to the right, past a grand dining room with a fireplace and a long table topped with what looks like a pewter sculpture of a sailboat.
I’m walking toward what looks like a formal living area when I see, through a half-cracked doorway in the dining room, a posh black and white kitchen.
I’m stepping past the table when Hunter’s bulky body fills the doorway. I’m stunned to see his lips spread in a slow, appreciative-looking grin as he looks me over from head to boot.
He tilts his head at the room behind him. “I’ve got breakfast.”
As he walks back into the kitchen, I realize he’s holding a wooden spoon. Holy crap, that’s sexy. Hunter in house clothes, cooking breakfast. Dark jeans hang off his hips, with a worn-out wallet spot over the left back pocket. A scruffy green button-up shirt is rolled up to his elbows. Rugged boots with real live mud clomp on the tile floor as he heads for the stove.
As I step into the kitchen, which smells like butter and sugar and bacon, he turns around from the stove and flashes me a cautious smile.
“How are ya?”
I surprise myself by sliding a look up and down his delectable body. I just can’t resist. I notice that despite his sunnier attitude, his eyes are still tired and, underneath a day’s worth of stubble, his normally tanned face looks slightly pale.
“How are you?” I ask, praying he’ll mistake the ogle I just gave him for friendly concern.
“I’m still kicking,” he says, turning back to what he’s doing so I get a view of his broad back and tight ass. The double oven and industrial-sized sink face a massive window overlooking rolling acres of farmland. Framing the sink are slabs of counter, complete with black stools, place mats, and silverware.
I take a seat at the nearest bar stool, so Hunter is standing right in front of me. I prop my elbow on the counter—black granite with coppery swirls—and try to pretend we’re regular breakfast buddies.
He’s pushing some bacon around a skillet, not looking my way, when I begin to wonder if this will be a repeat of last night. I’m not sure if I can stand the awkwardness again. Then he lifts his head and pins me with a warm gaze I can feel between my legs.
“You cook?” he asks, and I notice for the first time that there are two big platters on the counter on Hunter’s other side, already piled high with biscuits and cinnamon rolls. Well, hot damn.
“I don’t,” I say, hanging my head. “Suri, my roommate, cooks like a champ, so I’m kind of spoiled. I’m surprised you do,” I add. “I would have thought you had somebody.”
“All honesty?” He arches a brow. “I gave my chef the day off.” He picks up a gooey-looking cinnamon roll and hands it to me. Then he gives a slight shake of his head and grabs a plate from one of the cabinets.
“Try that,” he says, pushing the plate my way, “and tell me if you’re still a skeptic.”
I do, and oh my God. I shut my eyes, and when I open them, he’s grinning. “That’s just sinful.”
“Our cook in New Orleans taught me to make these things from scratch,” he tells me, biting into one. His eyes widen slightly, like he’s realized he can’t speak around the cinnamon roll, so he quickly tries to chew, which makes me laugh.
Our gazes hold like magnets as we both finish our rolls, and then Hunter turns back to the stove, where the bacon is popping and crackling.
His eyes flick over me as he works the pan. “I have to say, I miss the getup from last night.”
I smile at him. “Do you now?”
“I do.”
He quickly moves the bacon from the skillet to another plate, then pushes it toward me. He grabs a basket of eggs out of the fridge. Watching his shoulders move as he cracks them into a giant bowl is one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen.
He seems so different in his own space. Not at all like the Hunter from my sex fantasies, or the anguished man from the last few nights.
I wish there was some way to ask about last night in particular, but I can’t think of one.
“How do you like your scrambled eggs?” he asks over his shoulder.
“Hard, I guess,” I say, and yeah, I blush a second after I say it.
He doesn’t seem to notice, though, and I munch on my bacon. He’s quiet again, so I have time to work up my nerve. A few minutes into his egg scrambling, I bring up the subject of our deal.