I pop my head out like a bird emerging from a nest. “You made coffee?”
Diesel places a mug on the night stand. “Knew you’d be a grouch until you had your first cup.”
“Har-har.” I sit up, stretching, not caring that my breasts are free and wild under his shirt. He deserves the torture. “I don’t even drink coffee before I get to work at the ranch. I save it for a break mid-morning.”
He looks skeptical as he rests his hands on his hip bones. “What planet are you from?”
I’m grinning as I sip. Mmmm. “This is really good.”
“You sound surprised.”
“Figured you drank it strong.”
Now his expression is grumpy. “Thatisstrong.”
I savor another sip. “Not in my book.”
“Come on. Breakfast is ready.” He tugs on a lock of my hair.
“Is it better than this coffee? I hope so.”
He walks out, that very fine man ass of his drawing my eyes like a magnet. God, I love a man in low-slung jeans that fit like that.
“Stare any harder and you’ll hurt something,” he calls from the kitchen.
I take my time, use the restroom, brush my teeth with a new kit from the supplies, and braid my hair. There’s a grinning woman staring back from the mirror most of the time.
When I walk into the kitchen, my feet stop on their own, so I can enjoy the view.Lordy.Diesel’s back has ink over those broad, hard muscles.
A sculptor must have made him just to torture the female species.
He plates some eggs and toast, glancing over his shoulder at me. “Jesus, woman, you’re burning a hole in my back.”
I clear my throat and take a seat at the table. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
With both of our breakfasts balanced in one hand and his coffee in the other, Diesel sits down across from me.
“Can you put a shirt on?”
He chuckles, slides a plate over to me, and commences eating like he’s up against some kind of timer.
“Did I miss the starting gun?”
He pauses with his fork in the air. “Old habits die hard. Sleep well?”
“Changing the subject?”
“Yes.”
I eat for a while, enjoying, not rushing. While I don’t want to be here, I’m not going to rush breakfast because ninety-nine percent of mornings I have chores.
Diesel’s mood darkens when he checks his phone.
“Sheriff’s calling.”
The eggs and toast were comforting and warm a moment ago, now they feel like cold rocks in my stomach.
"Drake here,” he answers, standing up from the table, the tight line of muscles along his back have turned into steel.
