No one did.
The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken stories. For a moment, I see a flash of the scared kid she must have been, trying to figure shit out on her own. It’s too familiar. Makes my chest ache in a way I don’t like.
Wren shakes it off first, her jaw setting in that stubborn way I’m starting to recognize.
Her eyes narrow. “It’s lunch, you ungrateful ass. Some of us actually cook instead of living off vodka and violence.”
I snort, taking in her appearance. Her makeup’s smeared, hair a mess, but somehow, she still looks sexy as hell in my shirt. Knowing she’s not wearing anything underneath makes my cock twitch. Her clothes from last night are still crumpled by the door, a reminder of how she ended up here.
“This isn’t cooking,” I say, standing up. “This is a war crime.”
She puts her hands on her hips, all sass and attitude. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was cooking for Gordon fucking Ramsay.”
I grab both plates and head for the trash. Wren’s eyes go wide.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“Disposing of evidence,” I mutter, dumping the charred remains.
“You can’t just waste food like that!” she snaps, looking genuinely pissed. “Some of us grew up with nothing, you know.”
I turn to face her, crossing my arms. “And some of us prefer not to die of eating burned sausages. You want to eat that shit, be my guest.”
She opens her mouth, probably to tear me a new one, but stops short as I start rolling up my sleeves. Her eyes track the movement, fixating on my forearms. I smirk, knowing the effect it has.
Wren hops onto a stool at the counter, giving me an exaggerated eye roll. But I don’t miss the way her gaze lingers on my arms.
“You planning on arm-wrestling the stove into submission?”
Wren’s eyes roam over me appreciatively, not even trying to hide her interest. She gives me a deliberate wink and slowly licks her lips. “Well, if the lesson includes you in that apron, I’m all ears… and eyes.”
I feel a rush of satisfaction at her obvious attraction, but I school my features. Can’t let her know she’s getting to me.
I grab an apron from a hook, tying it around my waist. “Someone’s got to show you how it’s done.”
“You… cook, of course,” Wren says, shaking her head slightly. She folds her arms across her chest, but the move just pushes her tits up, making it hard for me to concentrate.
“Don’t sound so surprised,” I grunt, moving to the fridge. “I’m a man of many talents.”
She snorts, but I catch her eyeing me like I’m the last piece of cake at a birthday party. “Right. I’m sure your criminal resume lists ‘master chef’ right after ‘breaking kneecaps’ and ‘looking terrifying in a suit.’”
I pull out fresh eggs and sausages, ignoring the way her eyes follow my every move. “You forgot ‘making mouthy women shut up.’”
Her eyebrow arches. “Oh, really? And how exactly do you manage that?”
The challenge in her voice makes my blood heat. I turn, closing the distance between us in two strides. She doesn’t back down, even as I tower over her.
“You really want to find out?” I growl, low and dangerous.
Her breath catches, but there’s a glint in her eye. “Maybe I do.”
We’re so close I can feel the heat radiating off her body. The air crackles with electricity, and for a moment, I think about forgetting lunch altogether and just taking her right here on the kitchen counter.
But then her stomach growls loud enough to break the spell.
“Alright, alright,” I concede, stepping back. “Food first. Then we can discuss… shutting up methods.”
Wren grins, hopping up to sit on the counter. “Fair enough. But I warn you, I’m a tough critic.”
