Chapter 22
AND SHE CAN COOK
Rhys
I sleep so hard that when I wake up, I don’t know where I am.
Or who I am.
Or even what I am.
I just know my bones—if I have bones—feel rested in a way that they haven’t in months.
Probably years.
The room slowly swims into focus—brightly lit by the morning sun streaming through the window—at the same time something savory tickles my nose.
Margot.
I roll over in the bed, looking for her, but she’s not there.
The scent of—is that roasted vegetables? Bacon? Both?
Something.
She’s in the kitchen.
My smile pops out all on its own. Didn’t prompt it myself, couldn’t stop it if I wanted to.
I don’t want to know how much of a lovesick puppy I look like, so when I use the bathroom after grabbing my pants off the bedroom floor, I avoid glancing at the mirror.
There’s a fire going in the living room, and Margot’s in the kitchen, sautéing vegetables in the same cast-iron skillet she used to attempt to maim me a week ago.
She smiles at me when I amble in.
Is that her lovesick puppy smile or just her normal smile?
Dammit.
Welcome to the overthinking show, starring me.
“Morning,” she says, her voice brighter and cheerier than the sunshine.
Her hair’s clipped in a messy something on top of her head, and she’s in polka-dotted pajama pants that hang low on her hips, showing off a slice of her belly that her lavender tank top doesn’t cover.
And—my favorite part—clearly no bra. “Do you like omelets?”
Don’t overthink it, I order myself.
As if that’s possible. On the one hand, I’m overthinking everything.
On the other, seeing her nipples poking against her tank top has my brain short-circuiting again.
I cross the kitchen to loop my arms around her from behind and press a kiss to her hair, my cock slowly waking up to the realization that there’s a pretty woman with hard nipples right here. “Mm-hmm.”
“Allergies?”
“No.”
“Aversions?”
“Being hungry.”
She laughs and wiggles her butt into me. “Better do something about that then, shouldn’t we?”
My stomach rumbles an agreement. “You made a fire?”
“Chilly mornings call for using the fireplace.”
I slide my hands up her sides. Is there nothing she can’t do? “Mm.”
“Sleep well?”
“Mm-hmm. You?”
“Like a log. Was I snoring?”
I breathe in the scent of her hair again. Me, down bad?
Clearly.
There’s no other way for me. “Wasn’t awake enough to notice.”
A timer sounds on her phone, and she hip-checks me with her whole ass, which takes my cock from half-mast to raging boner.
“Two steps back, Mr. Happy,” she says with a grin. “The biscuits are done.”
“Biscuits? Homemade biscuits?”
“My first culinary masterpiece.”
I release her so she can check the oven, and that’s when I realize her phone has gone back to playing soft music. Jazz or blues.
Something instrumental and melodic and gentle.
It fits the morning.
She pops a half dozen thick, fluffy, perfectly browned biscuits out of the oven, then gestures to the coffee pot. “Help yourself.”
Ah.
Right.
Her one failure in life. Making coffee.
I should’ve been up earlier to fix this myself.
“I’ve had your coffee,” I remind her.
She smiles and rolls her eyes as she grabs another skillet. “How many eggs would you like in your omelet?”
“Three, please.”
I help myself to the coffee despite giving her crap, and it’s night and day different from what she made on Monday.
“You make this?”
“Lucky told me they stocked coffee here. He didn’t tell me it expired before they all inherited the cabin and they each think the others drink it, so they all bring their own when they stay here. I got some beans at Bee & Nugget the other day too.”
“Walking a fine line there, taking free housing but spending money for nonessentials at the coffee shop.”
“Someone left a big tip, so I decided to splurge and support a local shop.” She gestures to the eggs and cheeses on the counter beside the oven.
“And Cyril delivered groceries this morning, so no one knows it was me. He has the rest of today off, by the way. I told him I wouldn’t be leaving the cabin. ”
“That mean I’m hired?”
“It means you’re trustworthy and knowledgeable about my particular situation and he can take the weekend off.”
I smirk at her. “Don’t hire people you sleep with?”
She smirks back. “Don’t usually hire people who blackmail me. But you’re kinda cute, so I guess I can overlook a few bad decisions.”
“Kinda cute?”
“In a grumpy lumberjack kind of way.”
“I am good with…wood.”
She visibly shivers, and her cheeks take on a pink hue.
But I don’t think she’s embarrassed.
I think she’s getting warm.
“Yes, you are,” she murmurs.
“Maybe if you’re a good girl, you can play with my wood again.”
She slides me a look. “Splitting and riding?”
If I wasn’t hard as steel before, I am now.
Sweating a little myself too. “Not at the same time.”
Her carefree laugh settles in my soul, and I lock it away to remember it later.
Because there will be a later.
When she goes back to her normal life and I go back to—fuck if I know right now.
Something.
But that’s a tomorrow problem.
Not something I’ll let ruin today.
She was right yesterday.
I deserve to live, and I shouldn’t hide the rest of my life out of fear of pain.
I lean against the counter and watch her while I sip my coffee, the music the perfect touch to finish off this cozy morning.
Margot’s art in motion.
Far more proficient in a kitchen than she lets on, if the way she’s cracking eggs one-handed is any indication.
“My mom was my hero,” I say quietly as she shreds cheese over the first omelet in the pan.
She slides me a look. “Yeah?”
“Didn’t do it on purpose, I don’t think, but she taught me badass women are the best women.”
Margot’s smile softens. “She was a badass?”
“Ran a tight ship in a male-dominated field, and also made me pancakes on Saturday mornings and put notes in my lunchbox every day.”
“My parents taught me my worth was dependent on my success, and they didn’t like that I wanted to hang out in the kitchen to watch our chef cook.”
“I’ll still like you if these taste like shit.”
She doesn’t laugh. “You’re a testament to what an amazing person your mother must’ve been.”
I absently rub my chest, right over my heart. “Past year hasn’t felt like it.”
“Something I learned watching Daphne—everything’s temporary.
Good times, bad times, happiness, sadness.
We’re never one thing. We’re all complicated messes doing our best in whatever situations we find ourselves in, and most of us are good at our cores.
I don’t need to have known your mom to know she would’ve understood that too. Here. How’s this look?”
She slides the first omelet onto a plate, and my mouth waters so hard I almost drool. “Like a fairy princess cooked me a magic breakfast.”
Her smile hits me in the heart.
The way she goes up on tiptoe and hooks a hand behind my neck to kiss me softly does far more damage than a simple hit though.
She tastes like everything that’s been missing in my life.
And I need to keep perspective.
Appreciate this for what it is, not what it can’t be.
“You’re just as good at that in the morning,” she whispers as she pulls out of the kiss.
“I can do it all day long.”
My stupid stomach grumbles again.
She flashes a grin. “Maybe after food? There’s jam in the fridge.” She sets two biscuits and two slices of bacon from another pan on the plate with the omelet. “I’ll be just a minute for my omelet.”
By the time I have both of our coffees, the jam, butter, and my plate at the table in the front room, she’s serving up her own omelet too.
Instead of across from each other, like we were last Sunday night when I shared my beef and barley stew with her, we sit huddled together on one end, her at the head of the table, me on the side next to her.
Her feet tease mine under the table while we eat and trade stories about the craziest things we’ve ever seen in life.
Mine includes discovering I’m accidental temporary roommates with a billionaire heiress pretending to be a housekeeper who can cook a killer breakfast.
Hers includes taking down an intruder in a cabin with hair dye, flour, and a cast-iron skillet.
After breakfast, when I tell her I’ll clean, she insists on helping.
Though by helping, I really mean seducing me in the kitchen until I’m banging her against the fridge.
I repay the favor by helping her shower.
There are a few more orgasms involved.
Enough that when we make it back to the living room and I get the fire rekindled, we both pass out on the couch for a long nap.
And thank fuck we’re dressed, because when we wake up, the triplets are staring at us.
“We knocked,” Decker says dryly as Margot—Margie Margie Margie, I remind myself—yeah, as Margie lunges off of me.
Leaving a little bit of drool on my arm where she was sleeping.
“Three times,” Lucky adds. He’s smirking.
Jack’s staring at the ceiling. “I told them we should come back later. Or, you know, call first.”
Margie smooths her hair down, her hand freezing just below her ear.
She’s not wearing her glasses.
“Bathroom,” she stutters. “Back in a minute. Bathroom.”
After she disappears down the hallway, all three of the triplets assume matching stances.
Legs wide, arms crossed, and some form of what the fuck are you doing with my sister? etched on their faces.
“What?” I say. “You know how hard it was to keep our stories straight last night? Wore us both the fuck out.”
Decker pulls a strip of condoms out of his back pocket.
Look exactly like the kind I bought yesterday.
“Found these on the ground by your truck,” he says.
“I told you to leave them alone,” Jack mutters.
“I’m just glad you’re practicing safe sex with whoever you’re old enough to practice it with,” Lucky says. “Can’t be too careful. You wouldn’t believe the STIs I get to treat at the retirement home. Those people are frisky, and they think vasectomies and menopause mean the danger’s all gone.”
All three of us stare at him.
He winks at me. “You’re welcome.”