Chapter 14
Mac
I feel a little disoriented when I wake in an unfamiliar bed, but it doesn't take long for her scent to wash over me. It gets even better when it mingles with the aroma of something incredibly delicious coming from the kitchen.
I stretch, a little grunt leaving my lips when I lift my arms over my head and arch my back.
Her bed is so much better than the stupid hotel bed I've been sleeping in the last couple of nights, but I also know that it might've been a mistake to stay here. It makes this look like more than it is, and in the end, it'll make me look like even more of an asshole than she thinks I am when I remind her that this is just a little fun. We're just having some great sex. The thought of that hits me in a way that makes me scowl. Great sex is one thing. Holding a woman all night, snuggling into her just as much as she pressed into me, is something altogether different.
I imagine her in the kitchen making me breakfast. Maybe some bacon and eggs and a side of French toast for good measure, but then I remember how over the top her cooking is, and disappointment swirls around me as I stand from the bed and give my body another big stretch before heading to the bathroom.
Thoughts of French toast fly out the window as I take care of business before using a washrag I find in her small linen closet to wash my face. She's probably making octopus tentacle, escargot, or something even more insane like a vegan burger with those huge mushrooms as the bun.
I pull on my clothes, grateful that it's New Year's Day, and we schedule the day off, because it's much later than I would have to get up for work.
I make my way toward the delicious scent and find Riley standing in the kitchen with a cup of coffee held to her chest as she looks out the window above her sink.
I stand a few feet away, watching her, wondering what she's thinking about that would make that cute smile form on her face. I'm egotistical enough that after last night, I can imagine that it's thoughts of me making her happy, but all that fades away when she turns her head, noticing me standing there. Her lips form a flat line, and I watch her face transform as if she's annoyed that I haven't left yet.
The woman is the queen of mixed signals, and I don't know how to feel about it.
"Good morning," I tell her, opting to ignore her disappointment rather than bring it up and start some sort of fight this morning.
"Hey," she says, her tone a little softer than I expect from the look on her face. "I have a casserole in the oven, but I understand if you need to get out of here."
I can tell by the way that she says it that she fully expects me to bolt out the door and never look back. The woman is too fucking pretty to think that a man wouldn't want to spend more time with her, but I'm in no position to be that kind of guy for her. I have too much stuff on my plate right now to add trying to be something more for her. I'd only leave her disappointed. That was never my goal, despite the off-the-wall shit I've said to her when I start feeling ways that I shouldn't.
"Does it have squid in it?"
Her head tilts as a huff of laughter erupts from her mouth, and I feel myself smiling in return.
"No," she answers.
"Because that would be weird for you?"
"Squid would dry out too quickly in the oven."
"So, nothing weird in it?"
She shrugs. "I don't know what you'd consider weird, but it's eggs, milk, cut-up bagels, some spices. It's like a French toast bake."
"Smells delicious."
Her smile grows wider. "Thank you. Coffee in the pot if you want some."
I follow the point of her finger, but with the way the woman is looking in those tiny sleep shorts and tank top, coffee is the last thing on my mind.
Her eyes roam over my chest and down my torso, and I stand a little taller when her gaze pauses on the denim getting tighter just under my belt buckle, but then she darts her eyes away. The confidence she showed last night is nowhere to be found, but I don't exactly hate the pink in her cheeks showcasing her timidness either.
There's something about all the facets of this woman that I enjoy.
I move around her, feeling a little silly when I press my lips to her temple before heading for the coffee pot.
For a man who is adamant about this being nothing but great sex, that little action seems entirely out of place.
A timer goes off before I can lift my cup to my mouth and get my first taste of coffee.
"Do you need help with anything?" I ask when she sets down her coffee cup and shuffles to the oven.
"You can grab a couple of plates out of the cabinet," she says, pointing over my shoulder as she grabs a potholder before reopening the oven.
I do as she has requested, setting the plates down on the counter as she pulls the fluffy, bubbly breakfast out of the oven. The scent of cinnamon and sugar triples as she closes the oven and sets the casserole down on a trivet. Instead of making a production out of it like I fully expected her to do with the way the woman talks about food, she simply grabs a serving spoon and scoops some of the food onto each plate. I notice how much bigger my serving is than hers, but I choose not to say anything about it.
"Thank you," I tell her when she slides a plate in front of the stool I'm standing near.
Before I even sit down, I take a fork and load it with a massive bite.
"What are you doing?" she snaps.
"What?" I ask with the fork paused just a few inches from my mouth. "I was planning on blowing on it."
When she licks her lips, clearly distracted by my words, I toss her a flirty wink.
"It needs syrup on it," she says after blinking a few times, no doubt to clear her mind of all the dirty things we could be doing instead of enjoying this casserole. "And whipped cream."
My mind stays in the gutter as I lower my fork. "Everything tastes better with whipped cream."
My voice is low, layered with sexual innuendo, but she shakes her head with a light smile before walking to the fridge and grabbing the extra supplies.
"Tell me when," she says as she tips the syrup bottle over my plate and begins to pour.
"Drown me with it," I rasp, my eyes on her rather than the plate of food.
The meal is going to be delicious. I know that without a doubt. I'm equally confident that she'd taste even better.
"You seem different his morning," she says, stopping the pour even though I didn't tell her to.
Next, she lifts the can of whipped cream, looking up to meet my eyes as she squirts it on top of the casserole.
"I just slept really well. The bed at the hotel is awful," I explain, taking a seat when she steps away.
Despite insisting that I add syrup and whipped cream to my own meal, she doesn't add it to hers.
"This is made with egg whites only, and the bagels are high protein and gluten-free."
I stare down at the food on my plate, hating that her explanation makes me a little less excited to eat it. Full carb and full fat are both part of my lifestyle.
"Why?" I ask, the disdain in my voice very clear.
She shrugs. "It's healthier."
I nod, guessing that she's trying to explain her choice of breakfast because the woman has some evident self-esteem issues. I refuse to feed them. Giving them life will only make them worse, so I scoop up a huge bite of casserole and shovel it into my mouth like my dear momma never taught me any manners. I'm fully prepared to smile through bland-tasting food, but the flavors coat my tongue and a rumble of genuine approval bubbles out of my chest.
Her smile widens as she lifts a much smaller bite to her mouth. "Good?"
I look down at the plate, wondering if I'm being tricked.
"It's delicious," I answer honestly, the last syllable less than intelligible because I shove more food into my mouth.
Before long, my plate is empty and I'm looking longingly at the casserole dish sitting on top of the stove.
"You're more than welcome to have seconds," she says, reading my mind. I don't waste a second before standing up and scooping more onto my plate.
I return to my stool and pour syrup over all of it before topping it with whipped cream.
"I'd normally have some fresh fruit to go with it, but I forgot it when I went shopping last.
"Fresh fruit?" I moan around another full bite. "That would be amazing. "
I chew, chiding myself for being so mannerless, all the while resisting the urge to wiggle like a happy child as I eat.
"Why don't you make this sort of stuff for your business?" I ask, pointing my fork at my nearly empty plate. "It's phenomenal."
"This is my grandmother's recipe," she explains. "I grew up with my grandmother teaching me how to cook. When I left town and went to culinary school, I learned so much about food. I wanted to bring all of that back to Lindell."
"People love this type of food," I say. "My grandmother made something similar, and I'd call you a liar to your face if you told her I said this, but yours is somehow so much better."
She shrugs. "It's just a simple breakfast casserole."
"Exactly," I say around another bite. My stomach is so full it's starting to ache, but I'm not going to leave a single crumb behind. "You're part of a community of simple people. They don't have to have weird shit to eat to enjoy food."
She stands, carrying her plate to the sink before busying herself with finding the lid for the leftover casserole.
"Were you able to secure the contract with the McGees?" she asks with her back to me as she begins to wash the handful of dishes I saw in the sink.
I tilt my head, my neck popping. I'd somehow forgotten for a few minutes that my house is in shambles.
"No. I guess it's a good thing, though," I say. "I won't have the time to do the renovation on the old theater because all of my spare time will be spent repairing my own house."
"I feel so guilty," she mutters, her back still to me. "I'd offer to help pay for part of it, but I'm flat broke."
"Insurance will cover most of it, but the problem is that what materials they think I should use aren't the same grade of stuff I have in my house. I take pride in the work I put into that place. It's why I wanted the McGees to come and see what I'm capable of."
"No one in town doubts what you're capable of, Mac," she says in a way that is so to the point that I believe that she believes it.
"Thank you," I say, feeling genuinely grateful for the boost of confidence.
"If only it were that way with everyone from around here," she says, turning off the faucet and reaching for a hand towel to dry her hands. "I, on the other hand, have to decide when the best time is to put my house up for sale because it's inevitable that I'll have to move into one of Jason Brakeen's duplexes."
"This is your family home," I say, remembering her living here the entire time that her family has been in town.
She shrugs as if it doesn't matter, but I can see in her eyes how devastating that would be for her.
"Taxes are too expensive. I can either sell the house and keep plugging away at my dream, or I can sell the house and move to the city where I can get a job in a restaurant, making someone else's dream come true. I'd much rather stay in Lindell."
"The only thing I worry about now is asbestos in the duplexes. Jason isn't exactly known for doing things above board."
"There isn't asbestos in those duplexes," I say, a hint of the same anger I felt last night with Walker's lie rearing its head. "Walker lied to Claire in order to get her to move in with him."
Her mouth hangs open, but then a smile spreads across her face. "That's sort of sweet and a little toxic."
"Seriously," I mutter, fighting the offer in my head that I can't seem to push down.