I come around the corner to the kitchen and take in the scene in front of me.
Toni’s up on one of the barstools, swinging her little legs. But Miguel… oh, heavens, he’s wearing shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt, and there is absolutely nothing left to the imagination. Still, I give it an involuntary go. I imagine his ass is all tight and muscled and perfect, his legs are powerful while he pins me in place as he—
I shake my head. I have to stop this.
Prince sees me, gets to his feet, and trots obediently over to remind me of his undying love and affection by whining and wriggling with excitement, his little pink tongue lapping at whatever part of me he can reach.
“Hey, boy,” I say, wincing against the pain in my head when I bend to pat him. “I hope you were a good companion for Toni last night.”
“He was the best,” Toni says, wriggling her fingers at me and grinning from her perch atop the stool. “Hey, Samantha. Are we going to find my mom today?”
Miguel turns around and catches my eyes. A tingle of awareness travels straight down my spine, and his own eyes heat as he watches me. His grip on the wooden spoon he’s using to stir eggs in a skillet tightens, then just as quickly as the awareness flashes in his eyes, it’s gone.
“I-I don’t know if we can do that today,” I say, stuttering as I try to process that look he just gave me.
“Are you feeling okay?” he asks, and I can’t see the smugness on his face because his back is to me, but I can imagine it just fine.
“Of course,” I lie, because I am not going to let him make fun of me for making a rookie drinking mistake. “Why would you ask such a thing?”
“Heard a crash and bang a few minutes ago,” he says, “Thought maybe you fell. Maybe hurt yourself.”
“Oh that, nah,” I say, waving my hand and forcing a borderline lunatic laugh, all high-pitched and squeaky. “I just tripped and fell.”
“On what?”
Nothing, jerk face.
“That matters?” The best defense is a good offense, amirite?
Frowning, he puts the spoon down on a spoon rest and walks over to me.
I’d wondered this morning if I’d imagined things, if things weren’t as intense as they’d seemed. But when he reaches me, all alpha male sexiness in his still-sweaty clothes, his skin gleaming after working out, I realize me imagining things has only just begun.
“Did you hurt yourself?” he says, his brows drawing together as he brushes the back of one large hand along my cheek. My skin heats.
I shake my head. “Bruised my knees, but nothing else,” I say with a shrug. I mentally war with myself between telling him to go back to cooking so he stops invading my personal space and asking him to carry me up to his bedroom and check my body out with a closer inspection to see if I missed any little scrapes or bruises he can doctor with his own magnificent hands.
Instead, I stare at him, the power of language somehow forgotten.
He looks down at my knees. They’re reddened, but otherwise okay. He brushes one thumb over one bruised and reddened spot. Tingles erupt on my skin, and I flirt with asking him to kiss my owie.
I blink, coming to.
“You need some pain meds,” he says.
I do. I need way more than that, but it’s a good start.
He opens a cabinet and removes a small white bottle, shakes a few pills into his palm, and hands them to me.
“What are these?”
“Ibuprofen.”
I sniff them, making Toni giggle. “Do you sniff all your medicine?”
I give her a side-eye. Just because she’s cute doesn’t give her permission to mock me.
“No, sometimes I lick it, too.”
Miguel stares at me, and when I look at him, his wicked, molten gaze tells me he’s gone down that dark and dirty road again, as if imagining other things I like to lick.
God, the nerve!
I narrow my eyes at him, and when Toni bends to pat Prince, I point my two fingers at my eyes, then swing them back to him, a silent declaration of I’m watching you.
He smirks. God, that crooked smile could unnerve a woman.
My head feels better after some orange juice and the meds, so by the time he serves us breakfast, my stomach rumbles.
I have to admit, I could get used to a guy cooking for me. I mean, even though I know he owns restaurants and likes to cook, he seems the type that hires out for everything. But Miguel really knows what he’s doing. The eggs are cooked to perfection, the bacon crisp, just like I like it, and the thick slabs of sourdough bread are toasted golden and slathered generously with butter. The steaming cup of coffee laced with cream he puts in front of me tastes like it was sent from heaven above.