Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
elena
Iwake up warm.
Not just under the blanket Isaac wrapped around me last night, but inside. Like something heavy and cold in my chest finally thawed and made room for soft things. Like rest. Like safety. Like him.
The first thing I register is the smell.
Coffee. Bacon.
And then I hear it. A low, off-key hum. The occasional clatter of a pan. Something being chopped on a wooden board with entirely too much enthusiasm for 7:00 a.m.
I push the blanket off and swing my legs over the edge of the couch, stretching.
The floor’s cool beneath my feet as I pad toward the kitchen.
And then I stop. Because holy shit.
Isaac Logan is still shirtless. Wearing only boxer briefs. There’s a spatula in one hand and a cracked egg in the other.
And he’s…whistling.
I lean against the doorway, arms crossed.
“Make breakfast for all your over night guests?”
He doesn’t turn. Just keeps whistling while he plates the bacon.
“Nope,” he says. “Pretty sure this is my first one that involved actual sleep and no sneaking out.”
“I probably should’ve snuck out while it was still dark outside,” I admit, voicing the concern we’ve both ignored.
“Eat first,” he commands. He glances over his shoulder, and the second he sees me, his grin blooms across his face like sunlight over the horizon.
I roll my eyes, but there’s no heat in it. “You’re not supposed to feed the strays.”
“Too late.”
He slides a plate onto the counter and pours me a mug of coffee. “I even looked up a recipe for huevos rancheros to impress your ass. But full disclosure, I had to text the ranch cook, Miss Lottie, for help.”
I raise a brow, taking the mug. “Seems like a lot of effort for little ol’ me.”
“They probably taste terrible. But I make up for it with charm and biceps.”
I take a sip, smirking. “Do you ever turn the charm off and just be like—”
“A dick?” He shrugs. “Nah, I leave that to Wyatt.”
I choke on my coffee. “A regular guy, cowboy. Not that I don’t appreciate the golden retriever energy. It just seems…exhausting.”
He grins as he delivers a plate of food in front of me. “It’s not exhausting if it’s your nature. I’m sure you nearly give yourself an aneurysm trying to be friendly because you dislike the entire human race. Which I get, for the record.”
“Not all of the human race,” I grumble. But he’s not wrong.
He leans against the counter, arms crossed over his bare chest. “Oh I know, baby. You might give everyone else the cold shoulder, but I’ve seen you on your knees begging for me like a good girl.”
“Jesus, Isaac. It’s like seven in the morning.” My cheeks flush, and his gaze softens.
“Don’t worry, spitfire. I won’t tell anyone.” He nods at my plate. “You gonna eat or you want to sit in my lap and let me hand feed you, because we both know I will.”
Something flickers in my stomach. A truth I’m not ready to say out loud but I feel in every nerve ending.
I like the attention he gives me, I love it actually. I crave it. The way he manages to be both sweet and nurturing while keeping his filthy intentions at the forefront.
The way he put my needs first last night even though I would’ve pushed past my exhaustion and ridden him until sunrise if he’d made a move.
I suspect if I allow myself to indulge in this behavior much longer, I’ll have a serious problem.
I’ll become addicted to Isaac Logan, to the charming cowboy no one can tame, to pretending I’ve tamed him if only for a little while.
My heart races in my chest as the reality of the situation sets in.
I have to get out of here. Not just this kitchen.
But this ranch, this state, maybe even this time zone.
I don’t know how much distance I’ll need to put between us to break this magnetic pull he has on me, but I’m going to need to find out. Soon.
As if he can sense my impending panic attack, he places a hand on mine. My eyes meet his, and he’s serious for once. “I can’t cook like you. But at least take a few bites so you don’t wound my pride.”
I grin and exhale the pressure building in my chest. “It smells amazing actually.”
He nods. “Good. Eat. And after, if you’re good, I might let you lick my spatula.”
I give him a look. “That’s what we’re calling it now?”
He winks. “Depends on how much hot sauce you put on your eggs.”
I’m halfway through my second bite when it hits me.
Nausea.
Not a slow wave, not a gentle rolling seasick feeling like I’ve had after too many late-night craft cart meals. No, this is a sucker punch from the inside out.
Hot. Immediate. Unforgiving.
I shove back from the table so fast my chair screeches against the hardwood.
Isaac startles, fork halfway to his mouth.
“Elena?”
“I—uh—I need to go,” I say, breath already shallow, vision doing that shimmery tilt like the world’s been tipped sideways.
He stands. “Go where? You just—wait, are you okay?”
I sidestep his outstretched hand and practically sprint for the front door.
And then I barely make it behind the house before I drop to my knees in the grass and heave up everything I just ate along with last night’s dinner.
My hair sticks to my cheek. My eyes water. My pride dissolves faster than the eggs now decorating Isaac’s flower bed.
Awesome. Really nailing the mysterious leading lady vibe.
I’m still bent over, palm braced against his house, when I hear boots crunch on gravel.
“Elena?”
I glance up, mortified, and probably still pale as hell.
He takes one look at me and winces. “Damn. I knew my cooking wasn’t great but I didn’t mean to poison you.”
I let out a weak groan and slump sideways until I’m sitting in the grass. “Your cooking didn’t do this.”
“Debatable.” He squats beside me, one big hand on my back. “You did run out mid-chew.”
I blink up at him, throat raw, body shaking. “Still not worse than your hot springs cannonball.”
His grin is immediate. “Let’s get you inside.”
“I’m fine—”
“Don’t make me throw you over my shoulder. I’ll do it, and you’ll hate it because sick or not, I’ll definitely spank your ass on the way in.”
I glare, but the effort is weak. My stomach lurches again, and that’s enough for him.
He hooks his arms under my knees and behind my back, lifting me like I weigh nothing. I don’t argue this time. Mostly because I can’t.
He carries me straight into the bathroom, flips the water on in the shower, and starts stripping off my clothes—not with heat, not with any kind of expectation. Just quiet focus, his jaw tight and eyes full of concern.
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” he says, guiding me gently under the spray.
He’s still fully dressed, leaning in just enough to make sure the water isn’t too hot. His fingers work the shampoo into my hair like it’s a mission. I sag against the tile, weak and wrung out, but also weirdly enjoying this.
Once I’m clean, he wraps me in a towel and leads me down the hall—straight to his bed.
I freeze. “I can’t—I need to check in with Ivy, and I’m already behind on table reads and—”
“And nothing.” His voice is firm. Calm. Unshakeable. “You’re not going anywhere. You're sick. You’re taking the damn day.”
I open my mouth. Close it. Try again.
“I don’t take days off.”
“Well, congratulations.” He pulls back the covers and gestures. “Today’s your first.”
I stare at him, swaying slightly, and something in his expression softens.
He picks up his phone and starts typing. “Ivy’s getting a message right now. ‘Star actress needs a day. She’ll return fully feral tomorrow. Blame the huevos or the shitty cowboy cook.’”
I snort despite myself. “Where I come from, huevos is a slang term for balls, cowboy.”
“Shit. You know what I meant,” he says, voice gentling again as he coaxes me toward the bed. “Into the nest. You’ve officially been daddied.”
My eyes narrow. “Did you just use ‘daddied’ as a verb?”
“Sure did.”
He tucks me in like a burrito, then leans down and presses a kiss to the crown of my head.
“Can you maybe put a garbage can by the bed? I’m not sure I got everything up yet.”
“Of course. Rest. The world will still be here when you wake up.”
I want to argue.
I want to run the hell out of here while I still can.
But instead, I do as I’m told for the first time in a long time. And rest.