"Do you always drink it this strong, or is this a special occasion?"
"I always drink it this strong."
"Hmm." She takes another sip, grimaces, her nose scrunching in a way that has no business being that appealing, then takes another. "What's in the eggs?"
"Eggs."
She levels me with a flat look, one eyebrow arching. "Very helpful. What else?"
"Cheese. Herbs. A technique my grandmother perfected over sixty years of feeding people who asked too many questions."
Her lips twitch at that, a flash of amusement that transforms her entire face and makes my chest do something complicated I refuse to examine. The morning light streaming through the massive windows catches the blue of her eyes and turns them to sapphires, bright and sharp and far too observant for my sanity.
She's wearing clothes from the closet I stocked for her. Dark jeans that hug her hips, a soft sweater in charcoal gray that slips off one shoulder no matter how many times she tugs it back into place. Her dark hair is still damp from the shower, curling at the ends, leaving wet spots on the fabric that darken the gray to almost black.
I want to peel that sweater over her head and see what she looks like in the morning light with nothing between us but skin.
Instead, I flip the omelette and shift my stance to ease the pressure behind my zipper, grateful for the counter between us hiding exactly how much she affects me.
"What time did you wake up?" She's still asking questions, still cataloging, still being exactly the journalist she warned me she was. Her gaze drifts to the locked cabinet by the refrigerator, lingers there with obvious interest, then sweeps toward the living room. "You cook every morning, don't you? And I counted six typewriters out there, but not a single computer. That's deliberate."
"Four-thirty. Every morning. Weapons." I nod toward the cabinet without looking up from the stove. "And five typewriters, not six. Computers don't have souls."
She processes the rapid-fire responses, her head tilting as she maps each answer to its question. Then she laughs, a genuine sound that hits me square in the chest and spreads warmth through places that have been cold for decades.
"Most people would have made me work for all of that and you just gave it to me."
"I'm efficient." I slide the omelette onto a plate. "You want to know something, ask."
"Good to know." She props her chin on her hand, studying me with those sharp blue eyes. "So why are you so cranky this morning?"
"I'm not cranky. I'm focused."
Her brows rise, curiosity flickering across her features. "Focused on what?"
On not throwing you over this counter and fucking you until neither of us can walk, much less ask another hundred questions.
I don't say that. I slide the omelette onto a plate and set it in front of her with more force than necessary. Silverware clatters against granite. She raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment, just picks up her fork and takes a bite.
Her eyes flutter closed, lashes fanning dark against her cheeks. Her throat works as she swallows, the delicate muscles moving beneath skin I want to mark with my teeth. A soft sound escapes her, something between a moan and a sigh, and when her tongue darts out to catch a smear of butter glistening on her lower lip, my grip on the spatula tightens until my knuckles go white.
"This is incredible." She covers her mouth with her fingers as she speaks around the food, her eyes widening with genuine surprise. "Where did you learn to cook like this?"
"My grandmother."
"The same one with the coffee?" She takes another bite, her free hand gesturing toward my mug.
"Da."
Her lips curve, a knowing smile tugging at the corners. "Russian grandmother. That explains the coffee strong enough to strip paint and the refusal to accept compliments."
She's trying to beat back the worry and the fear with the rambling. She's easy to read so I don't have a problem playing along.
Another laugh, low and warm. Another knife between my ribs. This woman is going to kill me, and she's not even trying.
I eat standing at the counter because sitting across from her feels too intimate, too domestic, too much like something I've never let myself want. She doesn't seem to notice. Or if she does, she doesn't comment. She's too busy cataloging the kitchen, her eyes filing every detail, especially the full set of knives I keep freshly sharpened near the stove. I swear she's making a mental note of them in case she might need them later.
I walk down the hall and come back with a leather satchel that puts a light in her eyes.
