“In the morning?” He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused.
I pointed at him. “Actually, you seem like you’re probably a jerk all the time.”
Hawk looked almost offended. “Careful.”
“Oh relax,” I muttered, opening the fridge. “Help yourself if you want food. I’m starving.”
“You’re not cooking.”
“Yes, I am.”
“No, you’re not.”
I turned toward him, irritation bubbling beneath the surface. “You don’t get to decide that.”
Hawk straightened slightly, the first real movement he’d made since I walked in. “You have a broken arm.”
“It’s a wrist.”
“Three fractures.”
“I can still make eggs.”
“You can still make mistakes.”
I stared at him, my annoyance growing. “You’re very bossy for someone who doesn’t live here.”
“And you’re very stubborn for someone with a cast.”
Ignoring him, I grabbed a pan and set it on the stove. “You know you don’t have to babysit me.”
“I’m not babysitting.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
Hawk didn’t answer immediately. His eyes followed my movements as I cracked an egg awkwardly one-handed. It took two tries.
“You’re doing that wrong,” he said, stepping closer.
“I’m doing it fine.”
“You’re about to dump shell in the pan.”
“Am not.”
The shell dropped into the pan with a soft plop, and I froze. Hawk pushed off the counter and stepped closer—not touching me, just close enough that I could feel the heat coming off him.
“You’re a disaster,” he said quietly.
“Oh don’t start.”
“I punched a grown man unconscious last night.”
“Lucky punch.”
I gasped. “That was not luck.”
“You swing like you’ve never been in a fight.”
