Chapter 8
The smell of coffee and bacon had my gritty eyes peeling open. I inhaled, stomach growling. There came a muffled clatter from the kitchen. I blinked, my thoughts sharpening into something intelligible.
Oh, my God. Was… Was the goblin cooking breakfast? Throwing back the covers, I jumped up, ready to witness the unexpected.
Then I hesitated, common sense taking over.
I stepped into the bathroom and brushed my teeth, finger-combing my pink waves. My mascara had smudged, leaving dark circles under my eyes that enhanced my exhausted, sleep deprived state. I did my best to wipe it off with dampened toilet paper, which unhelpfully disintegrated.
It would have to do, for now.
On my way through the room, I checked the clock. It was eight thirty. I usually let myself sleep until ten. But… bacon.
When I reached the door, I looked over at the clothes I’d tossed onto the lounge in the corner. Then I glanced down at my bare legs and T-shirt. It was oversized on me, falling to mid-thigh. I bet it fit Bastian like a glove. Like the black one he’d worn yesterday.
The decal on the front said Walton Comets with a giant comet overlaying a football. In sub text, it said, “Streaking into the endzone since 1963.”
I huffed. Either he was a football fan, or it was a shirt he hated and didn’t mind giving up. Still, it was soft and comfy. It smelled fresh like his detergent. Maybe I would keep it, just for the hell of it. I wasn’t a huge football fan but, why not?
Inhaling again, I pulled the door open. The noise in the kitchen abruptly stopped, then resumed.
I trudged barefoot down the hall and right into…
the kitchen of my dreams? Rustic wood cabinets, butcher block island, white granite countertops with flecks of smoky gray and silver that glittered.
I silenced the groan that threatened to escape.
Because of course this asshole had a gorgeous kitchen.
Bacon sizzled in a frying pan. A coffee maker sat with its pot full. There were ingredients littering the counter for…pancakes? And an open carton of eggs.
But none of that was what stole my attention.
It was the goblin with a towel draped over his shoulder, lounge pants hugging low on his hips, and an entirely bare torso on display.
Because… wow. His tattoos didn’t just cover his arms. One of them went over his right shoulder and crept across his chest, a maze of tribal markings that I could only assume had something to do with his goblin ancestry.
He had piercings in both nipples. The rest of his torso was golden, human-looking skin, showing off a cut of muscles that had saliva pooling in my mouth.
What the hell?!
“Morning, sugar.” His gravelly voice went straight to my core as my body betrayed me, sending heat zinging to the apex of my thighs. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t stand him. Didn’t matter that he was an asshole.
I hid my response with an irritated scoff. “Can’t you just call me Rose?”
“Nah.” He crossed his arms, his tattooed muscles flexing. The corner of his mouth twisted up in a half-smirk—one I was growing to both love and hate. Green eyes burned tracks over my body, lingering on my bare legs before blackening. “How’d my shirt work out? Looks good on you.”
“Fine,” I snapped. “Hope you weren’t planning on getting it back.”
“No?”
“Not a chance.”
“Hmm. It's my favorite. Might have to peel it off that cute little body of yours if you refuse.”
“You wouldn't dare.”
“Oh?” He stalked forward, hands reaching for me.
I sputtered, backing up, until I hit the counter behind me. “Okay! I'll give it back. Just—not right this second, obviously.”
His grin was wicked “Glad to hear it. Want some coffee?' How’d you sleep?”
He was standing close—too close. I cleared my throat. “Coffee, please. And, I slept fine.”
“Just…fine? I paid a lot of money for that mattress.”
I huffed and slipped past him, over to the coffee maker.
He moved in the same direction, shadowing me as I came to a stop.
Goosebumps pebbled my skin as a corded arm reached up.
He opened the cabinet and retrieved a mug, setting it in front of me.
I swallowed, very aware of the heat pouring off him.
Very aware of his front nearly flush to my back.
“You want cream and sugar, sugar?” He said my nickname like a purr. His breath against my ear sent a shiver through me.
“Yes. Uhm. Both, please.”
“You got it.” He moved away, rummaging around the kitchen before he deposited both, along with a spoon.
I began measuring out everything exactly how I liked it.
His eyes remained fixed on me, garnering that familiar heat I was coming to recognize whenever he stared at me.
I threw a questioning glance his way. He merely shrugged, then went back to whatever it was he’d been doing.
“Make yourself comfortable at the island. I’ll get you breakfast.”
Warmth seeped into my chest at the declaration. Luke had never cooked me breakfast—unless you counted weak coffee and burnt toast.
I did as he said, taking a seat. “You really didn’t have to make me breakfast.”
The gesture didn’t really fit with his whole…persona. Which only left me confused. And made whatever was happening inside my chest all the more confusing.
“You had a rough night. It’s the least I could do.” There was a long hesitation. I gaped at his back, suddenly wishing I could see his face, his expression. “I wasn’t exactly…you know. On my best behavior.”
I snorted. “Is that what you call it?”
“Eleanor,” he warned, tossing a glare over his shoulder. I pressed my lips between my teeth, forcing my expression clear. “Anyway, figured I should get something in you before we discuss our next steps.”
“Next steps…?”
“Yup.”
“Right.” I looked at my coffee and took a tentative sip. Flavor filled my mouth as warmth shot into my belly. My eyes widened. I took another sip, catching notes of chocolate and…caramel?
“Like I said,” he continued, “let’s eat first, yeah?”
I had to restrain myself from gulping down the entire mug.
“You with me, sugar?”
“What?”
“I said we’d discuss things after we eat.”
“Oh. Right. Yeah, sure. As long as I can have like, three more cups of this?”
His eyes danced with something I couldn’t quite place before a plate slid onto the island in front of me.
I stared down at it, blinking. A stack of three pancakes, four slices of bacon, and fluffy scrambled eggs done to perfection, with a sprinkle of cheddar cheese on top.
The ball of butter on the pancakes was pooling up as it melted.
The scent of vanilla and bacon tickled my nose and I inhaled.
A small carafe of syrup landed in front of me. It was heated, a tendril of steam curling up into the air. It was followed by a clink of cutlery as a knife and fork were laid down beside my plate. Finally, a napkin.
My lips parted as I took everything in. “Wow. This looks… There’s no way I can eat all this.”
“No problem, sugar. Eat what you want.”
Our eyes connected across the island as a crackle of sparks flared between us.
I was vaguely aware of the plate in his hands, piled high with a mountain of pancakes, bacon, and eggs.
At least three times as much as was on my plate.
He held my gaze a beat longer, then lifted his eyebrows in challenge.
It’s like he was a completely different person today, opposite of how he’d been last night. There wasn’t a whole lot of asshole present. Which left me to wonder: why?
Dropping his gaze, I started spreading butter over my pancakes, then doused the stack in syrup. He took the seat beside me, so close that his elbow brushed mine as he prepared his own food. I was far too aware of his proximity. The heat radiating off him.
I cut into my pancakes. They were so fluffy, they sponged up after I pulled the knife through them. Absolute perfection. I lifted the fork to my mouth. The second I took a bite, I moaned.
Bastian completely stilled beside me. When I opened my eyes, I found him angled toward me, watching intently. His lips were parted, his pupils dilated. I quickly chewed and swallowed. “What? They’re fucking delicious.”
When he said nothing, I turned back to my meal and began devouring it. His eyes lingered for several more bites. I was only vaguely aware of him turning back to his own food.
We were both quiet for a while. I felt his eyes return to me several more times, mostly because when I tried the bacon and eggs, I offered up similar vocal responses.
I didn’t care. It was good. He should take it as a compliment.
Maybe he did. Maybe he was just shocked that I enjoyed his cooking this much.
I finished before him, so I rushed to take my plate to the sink and rinse it. “Just leave it,” he grumbled, placing a hand on my arm to stop me from standing. “I’ll get it later.”
“Oh, okay. Sure.” I felt compelled to do the dishes since he’d cooked. Even though with Luke, he’d always wanted me to both cook and do the dishes.
I refilled my coffee cup before refilling his. He drank his coffee black. Big surprise. It needed to match his soul and all that.
He waited until I sat back down, then said, “After you’re ready, I’d like to head over to Professor Miller’s house.”
I jerked toward him. “After I’m ready? Me?”
“You.” He dragged a forkful of pancakes—his last bite—through the remaining syrup pooled on his plate. I watched as he shoved it into his mouth. His jaw worked as he chewed. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. I didn’t bother hiding my fascination.
“I want to see if you notice anything amiss. You’ve been to her house before, no?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, years ago. But yeah.”
“Good. Authorities don’t know what all was taken—if anything. But I would not be surprised if something was missing.”
“Hmm…” I contemplated.
“All the usual valuable stuff was still there. Desktop computer, laptop, televisions, all that. But there could be other stuff missing.”
“I suppose,” I hedged. “What about…after?”
“What do you mean, after?”
“After we finish up there. You’ll take me home?”
His expression remained unchanged, but his eyes darkened until they were solid black. Then his skin began to change, to turn gray. As if his glamor was weakening. An instant later, he was back to normal—human looking.
“I’ll take you home afterward,” he decided. “But… I’d like to make a deal with you.”
My skin prickled. “A deal…”
Wasn’t there some sort of thing against this? Something where you shouldn’t make deals with goblins? Or supernaturals in general? There was probably a fairytale, or ten, that advised against it.
“I would like your assistance on this case. Think of it as… an advisory role. In exchange, I’ll give you ten percent of the profit.”
I gaped at him. “You're joking, right? Why would you need my help? You're the professional here.”
He held his silence a beat too long, like it pained him to voice the next words. “I'm good at tracking people, sugar, not solving academic mysteries. You knew Professor Miller’s world, what she valued, who she worked with. I need that insight. I need someone who can spot what I'm missing.”
Ignoring the way his words created a burst of excited pride in my chest, I said, “And you think that’s me?”
“I do.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Guess the question is, do you want to help catch Miller's murderer, or not?'"
I gave myself a moment to consider before sitting up straighter. In for a penny, in for a pound. “I deserve thirty percent, at the very least.”
He stared at me, those green eyes calculating. “Thirty percent,” he agreed slowly. “But you start now. And, sugar?” His voice dropped low. “You're mine for the duration of this case. No backing out.”
The way he said 'mine' sent heat pooling low in my belly. When it shouldn’t have. Especially if we were about to be working together.