War of Hearts (Storm MC Reloaded 2)

I jerk my chin at her and growl, “I’m a hungry man, princess, so you need to get your ass over to the stove and start cooking.”

She doesn’t fail to give me that fucking sass of hers. “I will when you hurry up and chop those vegetables.”

I finish with the vegetables and she makes me a meal. It’s a veggie stir-fry, which I wasn’t keen on when she placed it in front of me, but fuck if it doesn’t taste good.

“You liked it, didn’t you?” she asks as I finish it off.

“If all veggies tasted that good, I would use them to help me build this body.”

She leans forward. “I think we need a little less discussion about that body and a whole lot more of you doing the dishes so I can see that body in action.”

Fuck. Me.

My brows arch. “So let me get this right; I come here when you call, you offer me a meal that I have to help chop veggies for, and then I have to clean up after the meal? Is that how shit works around here?”

She returns the arch of my brows. “Let me get this right; you’re a grown-ass complainer who should be more grateful for a home-cooked meal. And you should show the woman who cooked it some appreciation by getting your ass over to the sink so she can check it out while you wash the damn dishes.”

I’m hard just from listening to what comes out of her mouth; I can only fucking imagine how hard I’d be if that mouth was on me.

I need to slow this train down.

Hell, I need to derail this fucking train.

Moving off the stool, I cut the sexy banter and say, “I think you should go find something for us to watch after I do these dishes.”

Zara reads into what I’m saying and nods slowly. “Yeah, I probably should.”

I watch her leave the kitchen, wishing—not for the first time—that her father wasn’t my president.

She makes me sit through two hours of Friends episodes.

God fucking help me.

Holly texts her around 1:00 a.m. to see if Zara will be okay if she stays at her girlfriend’s place tonight. I don’t miss the panic that fills Zara’s face as she reads the message and relays it to me.

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” I offer.

“Are you sure? It’s uncomfortable.” The words coming out of her mouth don’t match the look on her face. She wants to beg me to stay.

“The couch is good. Tell her to stay out.”

“Thank you.” The extreme gratitude she blasts my way hits me fair in the chest. The only other time in my life I recall someone looking at me with that kind of expression was when Violet’s mother thanked me the day I turned up on her doorstep with a week’s worth of groceries and a promise to help her with her new baby.

“Yeah,” I say gruffly.

The next fucking thing I know, she’s snuggling against me with her head on my shoulder and her hand on my stomach as she watches the TV.

Christ.

Tonight is swerving down a risky path.

However, she’s asleep within ten minutes of resting against me.

Thank fuck.

I let her sleep for a while, until I figure she’s in a deep enough sleep for me to move her without fully waking her. Carrying her into her bedroom, I settle her under the covers. I debate whether to remove her jeans. She’d be a helluva lot more comfortable without them, but I don’t want her to wake to a man stripping her. Not after what she’s been through. So I leave her dressed, turn off her lamp, and make my way back out to the lounge room to settle in for the night.

I actually fall asleep. Something I don’t easily do. I’m jolted awake by the sound of Zara having a nightmare. I slowly regain consciousness, but when she screams, I wake fully and bolt into the room.