“I guess I zoned out.” Thinking about him barging in and banging me up against the shower wall until we were both weak and exhausted.
“I took a lukewarm shower, so there should be some hot water left if you want to shower.”
“I’m gonna cook first. You gotta be getting hungry.”
Starving, actually.
Especially if he was going to be doing the cooking.
“What are you making?” I asked.
“Gonna grill off that steak with some vegetable kabobs.”
“Can I help?” I offered, knowing perfectly well I had no cooking skills to speak of.
“Sure. You can hop your ass up here,” he said, patting the counter, “and keep me company.”
“I can do that. Right after I make some coffee. You want a cup?”
“Nah, I’m good, babe,” he said, already turning to start pulling out veggies. “You got a cutting board?”
“For all the food I prepare? No. Just cut on the counter. They’re a mess already.”
I boiled a small pot of water, made my pour-over coffee, then hopped my ass up on the counter like he’d demanded.
“Changed my mind,” he said, distracting me from watching how the muscles and veins in his forearms moved as he chopped up the vegetables. “Gimme a sip,” he said, leaning over.
I raised my cup to his lips and he took a sip.
It was a weirdly intimate thing, to physically give a man a sip of your drink. I’d never done it before. It felt cozy and familiar. Like we’d been doing this exact thing for ages.
“How’d you learn to cook if your parents were… how they were?” I asked.
“The foster father who was the biker. He was big on barbecuing. He said that every man had to learn how to do it. So he taught me. Can’t really cook shit on the stove or in the oven, but I can make a whole meal on a grill.”
“Have you kept in touch with him?” I asked.
“Never saw him again when the state came back to take me home to my parents.”
“You never wanted to reconnect?”
“Wasn’t sure it’s something he’d want. Probably had a dozen kids in and out of his house over the years.”
I didn’t think that was how it worked. Not with the good foster parents. They had to remember all their kids.
But what did I know?
It wasn’t long before he had everything prepared then moved outside to grill.
I went ahead and kept my butt inside with the air conditioning, as modern technology intended, sipping my coffee, and enjoying the strange, warm sensation in my body.
But did I go ahead and peek out the window to watch him at the grill? You bet your ass I did. Otherwise, I would have missed it when he reached down to pull the bottom of his shirt up, exposing a washboard that had no right to be as toned as it was, so he could wipe the sweat off his face from standing over the hot grill.
I might have even let out a little needy whimper inside where he couldn’t hear me.
I didn’t even try to suppress the one that escaped me after he came in, we sat down, and I got my first bite of food.
Judging by the way Caymen’s gaze shot up, his eyes stormy, he absolutely heard me.
