Chapter 42 #2
The tattoos and scars catch the golden hour light through the galley porthole, making my chest squeeze. His head nearly skims the cabin ceiling since he’s genuinely too big for the small space, but he’s somehow managed not to put an elbow through the paneled walls, so miracles do happen.
Something dings, and I sit up straight as he goes to a metal contraption on the counter and pulls out a tray of bacon.
“You cooked bacon in a toaster oven?”
“Yeah, what else? You don’t have a real oven, and—” He indicates his chiseled form with the spatula, and it takes everything in me not to blush. “—I’m crazy, but I’m not so insane that I cook bacon on a stovetop shirtless. I’m scarred enough, thank you very much.”
I hide my grimace at the dark humor, shaking my head. “No, I just didn’t know I had a toaster oven. Or bacon. Or any of the other ingredients you’ve conjured up, if I’m honest.”
“The food Harry brought over, and the toaster oven… seriously? Behind the cast iron on the second shelf?” I look at him blankly—I didn’t realize I had a cast iron either.
His brow raises in concern. “You really have been only eating cherry tarts, haven’t you?”
“And Oscar’s cooking,” I argue.
“Hm. Well, now you’ll have mine too.”
He says it so matter-of-factly that he’s already moved on by the time I can wrap my mind around the claim.
“Don’t look at the pancakes yet.”
“Why? What’s wrong with the pancakes?”
“Nothing’s wrong with them. They’ll still taste scrumdiddlyumptious. I’m just trying something new.”
I lean over the bed to look anyway, and find the pancakes indeed looking “scrumdiddlyumptious,” fluffy and golden brown, but they’re all strange shapes—lumpy circles with two triangular peaks at the top.
“Hey!” he shifts to block my vision.
“What the problem? They look great,” I say, deadpan.
He snorts. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“Uh, beg your pardon. I am an excellent liar. I spent six months lying for a living.”
“Touché.” He scrapes the skillet carefully and juts his chin to the dining nook. “Sit down, bunny. Let me feed you.”
I can’t explain it, but there was something deliciously sinful about the way he said that—his Southern accent and deep voice slowly rolling over every word.
I’m pretty sure he wasn’t even trying to be sexy, which only makes it more infuriating that I’m falling for it.
I have to duck my head to hide my blush as I maneuver around him, pinning myself to the wall to slide by his large frame to keep from pouncing on him.
The only chair is draped with his old sweatpants, still damp from the ocean, so I hoist myself up onto the little folding table beside the kitchenette instead. His gaze flicks to me, and something wicked passes over his face in a flash, then it’s gone and he’s back to cooking.
Hm… curious.
My dangling legs begin to swing and I tilt my head at him.
“Why are you feeding me?”
“Because I want to.” He slides the oddly shaped pancakes onto a plate, not looking up, then he winces as he adds, “And because I’m afraid you’re mad at me.”
“Oh.” I sit up a little straighter. “Thanks for the reminder, actually. Astute observa… tion…”
The retort dies in my throat on a strangled squeak as Hatton appears in front of me, nudging my knees apart with his hip to slot himself between them like he belongs there.
He slides a teacup of tea to the end of the counter.
Then he picks up a plate and fork in one hand, a bottle of syrup in the other, and an expression on his face that can only be described as insufferably pleased with himself.
“What’re you doing?” I ask, my voice breathy.
He breaks eye contact and lowers the plate as he pours syrup over the short stack of pancakes in long diagonals. Three slices of butter and three slices of bacon cut in half all sit strategically on the pancake that I now understand what he was trying to make.
“Did you make pancake cats?”
“I made pancats, thank you very much.”
My chest squeezes. Why does he have to be a stalker and hot and adorable? He’s right I should be mad at him. But… pancake cats?
“Who does that?” I mutter, annoyed that he’s totally, easily sneaking past my walls once again.
“Like I said, I’m afraid you’re mad at me. So…” he exhales as he carves part of the triangular ear off the pancake. “This is me apologizing.”
“You’re apologizing for stalking me for six months and lying about who you are with… pancak–pancats?”
He shrugs. “Well, I’m certainly not apologizing for the orgasms I’ve given you.”
My jaw drops.
“Oh, baby, you opened for me without even having to ask.” He plops the bite into my waiting mouth as he purrs. “Good girl.”
Oh my God.
I quickly chew and get my bearings before he prepares another bite. When he lifts the loaded fork to my lips, I shake my head.
“Cooking for me was very nice of you, but I can feed myself.”
“No,” he growls. “I said, I want to feed you.”
Drool threatens to collect in my mouth, and I swallow.
“You’re being ridiculous, you know. You can’t apologize with pancats.”
“If feeding you doesn’t work, I’ll let you feed me instead.
” His gaze darkens. “I’ve been imagining the taste of you and syrup on my tongue for hours, bunny, so just give me a reason and I’ll lay you out on this table right now.
” His eyes dart down and up. “You’re at just the right height for me to kneel and feast.”
I think I’d hate him if I wasn’t afraid I’m falling for him against my will.
“I’ll… I’ll take the pancats, thanks,” I answer, my voice hoarse.
“Excellent choice. For now.” He hums. “Open for me, Lucy.”