“No, Eleanor. He’s grinning at you.”
“I still maintain that dogs don’t smile.”
“This one does.”
I sigh as I give Hunter my full attention. The smell of baking dough, tomato sauce, and meaty goodness permeates the air.
“What are you making?”
“Pizza and salad, followed by peach pie. Is that okay?”
My stomach clenches. I guess I am hungry. “Sounds amazing.”
He smiles like I offered him a million bucks. He flits around the apartment, preparing the salad, setting the table, disappearing into his bedroom for a few minutes, and feeding Charlie his kibble. The beast leaps off the couch to investigate what goodies are in his bowl, leaving his stolen prize behind. I eyeball my panties, debating on making a break for it.
“I wouldn’t,” Hunter advises, realizing my intent.
“He’s busy eating.”
“He’s taunting you with his prize. He’s quick. You won’t win this fight.”
I suck my bottom lip between my teeth, glancing between the thief and the couch before launching myself off the stool. I make it three steps before Charlie barrels past me, making me lose my footing and topple backward. Warm arms catch me, and Hunter’s amused face fills my vision. His masculine scent is all around me, and it’s making me dizzy.
He winks, a smirk softening his face. “I did warn you.”
“Your dog has issues.”
He sets me upright as a timer pings from the oven. Saved by the bell. I huff at the dog who is coveting his prize and decide they are a lost cause. I need to order clothing anyway, but I should double the panty order to account for missing ones claimed by the males in this house.
Hunter slides out two pizzas and slices them each into eight pieces. He adds arugula to one, fills two glasses with sparkling water, and sets a large wooden salad bowl between us.
I appreciate the fact he didn’t get alcohol. I don’t normally drink, but if I do, I’m alone. I don’t enjoy the loss of control and inhibitions. And I definitely don’t allow it in front of anyone I don’t deem trustworthy.
He raises a brow. “You want a different drink? Soda, water, orange juice?”
My fingers wrap around the glass, and I slide it toward me. “This is fine.”
He pushes a large plate toward me before taking a seat next to me.
“Pepperoni,” he says, pointing to one pizza. “And parma ham with arugula. There’s balsamic vinegar, which goes amazing with the ham.”
I take a slice of each, some salad, and pour a small amount of vinegar on the side. I’m not sure I’ll like it, but I am willing to give it a try.
The first bite explodes across my tongue, and a groan rumbles through my chest as my eyes flutter closed. The pizza is delicious. It’s not the ordinary store-bought crap. This is freaking awesome.
“The pizza is homemade in town. The Italian restaurant makes a small amount for the store each day. I was lucky to grab it before anyone else.”
My eyes flash as I eye our dinner. That makes sense. “It’s amazing.”
Before I know it, I’ve devoured my two slices and am reaching for more. I have an issue with my body understanding when I need sustenance. Once I’m actually starving, I feel it, but before that, I tend to eat according to social norms. Wake up equals breakfast, because that’s what everyone else does, and it makes sense my body would need food after lying comatose for multiple hours. Lunch tends to be the most irregular; I’m often too engrossed in my work to remember to eat, and I wouldn’t want to disrupt my focus anyway. Then there’s dinner. During the winter months, the darkening of the sky is a great indicator of requiring more food. However, in the summer, I set a timer to remind me to fuel up. Normally, I would call my favorite restaurant and have food delivered. I can cook, but my time is precious and is needed for jobs. If I’m not doing a paid task, I am following Jonathan’s dirty trail around the world and continuing to close the net around him.
“Leave room for the peach pie. Cheryl, William’s wife, made it.”
“Your boss?”
“Yes, you met him.”
I know what his boss looks like. I did a little research on Hunter King when we first met, and he tried to coax me into his bed. “He seems nice.”
