Oh. It’s not the security alarm. It’s the fucking fire alarm.
I drop my gun hand down by my side, exhaling sharply to try to bring my heart rate back down.
Two blackened pieces of toast rest in a large saucepan on one burner, and something that looks like black scrambled eggs with large bits of shell sits in the other. I’m shaking my head. “What did you do?”
“I was trying to make lunch for us, but the bread lit on fire, and when I was trying to put that out, I wasn’t watching the eggs.” She shrugs in an apologetic gesture, and she looks…radiant.
Soft green eyes peer up at me, and her lips are pink and full. Even with her long red hair damp from the shower, she’s gorgeous.
Her lovely little birthmark is right there, tracing over her cheekbone on one side. Just a tiny pink blotch—in the shape of astrawberry—and I’m tempted to reach out and touch her smooth skin.
Her gaze slides to my scar—where the shrapnel from an IED tore into my left shoulder, ending my career in the military. I see concern in her eyes, but she doesn’t ask, and I’m not about to tell her. She doesn’t need to know about things like that.
I clear my throat. “Tell you what. How about I do the cooking from now on?”
She glares back at me. “No way. I want to do it. Normal people cook, but I’ve never cooked anything in my life. Except this.” She lifts the pan of burnt eggs off the stove.
Her expression is serious, and I stifle a grin. I admire her initiative. That, and the fact she was trying to make food for both of us, not just herself. It was thoughtful.
She carries the pan to the garbage and scrapes it out, and my eyes drift down to her ass in the jeans she picked out yesterday. They’re a little snug, and I can make out every curve. I’m getting hard under my towel just watching her.
She pops back up, catching me looking, and her cheeks flush the palest shade of pink.
Watch it.
I turn away. “Let me throw on some clothes, then I’ll help you start over.”
But when I glance back, she’s shooting me a flirty little grin. “Why? I like the towel.”
Damn. Apparently she’s bold in other areas of her life too. That’s not gonna make things any easier.
“I’ll be right back.”
She pouts in fun, and it’s all I can do not to reach out and stroke those pouty lips with my thumb. “Mind if I use your phone while you’re upstairs?”
“Go ahead.”
I get dressed, then roll up my sleeves and get to work showing her how to chop a potato and some mini sweet peppers. She didn’t even know to use a cutting board. It’s like teaching a child. Makes me wonder how young she was when her life veered off course.
I hand her the last pepper. “How long did you live here? In Cupid City?”
She’s slowly and deliberately working her way through the vegetable, slice by slice. “Until I was eight.”
“Where did you move after that?”
“Los Angeles. My mom knew I was talented, so she wanted to get me into show business.”
“When you wereeight?”
“Yeah. We didn’t have a lot of money, so she did everything she could to put me on a good path. I started doing bit parts in movies and things like that, but pretty soon the producers figured out I could sing, and that’s when they put me on the Disney Channel.”
“Hmm.” I pull out a pan and some oil, and we set the veggies up to sauté. “When did you start performing under your own name?”
“You mean Harper Slade?”
“Oh. That’s not your legal name?”
She shakes her head, but she doesn’t offer up her real name, and I don’t press her. I understand about keeping things private.
