And not just any man. A shirtless man.
Broad shoulders flex seductively as he reaches for the coffeepot. His dark hair is a little long and messy, like he’s just rolled out of bed after doing wild, sexy, unspeakable things. Tattoos curl around brawny arms and across a chiseled chest. And thatass. God has definitely taken her time on that tight, I-would-give-my-left-tit-to-bite, sexy as sin ass.
Standing in my kitchen like he owns it, he’s humming and flipping bacon in my Hell’s Kitchen frying pan like he’s the star of some goddamn Food Network cooking show.
There’s something familiar about him I can’t quite place, but before I can put together some semblance of a coherent thought, something along the lines of a gasp and a squeak escapes my throat.
Without bothering to look up, he growls, calm as can be, “Took you long enough. Hope you like your eggs scrambled. Oh, and I slept in the guest room last night. You know, since I have nowhere else to go?”
What in the fresh, ever-loving hell?
“Who thefuckare you, and what the hell are you doing in my kitchen?” I snap, grabbing the nearest weapon I can find. My favorite spatula is bright pink and made of silicone, and not even close to lethal, but it’s all I’ve got.
Still not quite ready to come to terms with what I’m seeing, when he finally turns to look at me, it hits me, and I feel like I could die.
Not literally, obviously. But if a cardiac event were to strikeme down in this moment, I would go out looking at the sexiest face I’d ever created.
“I’m Ryder.”
Ryder Blackwood, the newest bad boy hero from my bestselling romance series, Heartstruck, is standing half-naked in my kitchen.
Cooking bacon.
He’s looking at me with smoky gray eyes, flashing a sexy crooked smirk above a jaw that could cut some serious glass.
“You know… the guy you’ve left hanging mid-scene for the past week?” He quirks an eyebrow. “Appreciate that, by the way. Real cool.”
I blink and my robe slips further off my shoulder.
His eyes flick from my face to my bare shoulder, then drop to my chest, which happens to only be covered by a thin, cropped white tank top.
The only other piece of clothing, other than that and my robe, is a tiny pair of sleep shorts and what I have no doubt is a partial camel-toe, completing the ensemble.
I gasp, pulling my robe closed. “Don’t stare at me, you perv!”
He snorts. “Kinda hard not to when you’re flashing me like you’re the entire cast ofMagic Mike.”
Clutching my robe with one hand, I wave the spatula in his face with the other. “This is not happening. You are not real. You’re fictional. I made you up!”
He points to himself. “Do Ilookfictional to you?”
I’m not about to answer that. Mostly because he seems to be real. More than, actually. Not to mention annoyingly smug about it.
I back up a step, my heart tap dancing against my ribs.
“Okay. Okay,” I whisper-mutter to myself. “I’m dreaming.Or maybe I’m still drunk. Maybe both. This has got to be some sort of weird stress-induced hallucination.”
Walking toward me slowly, he holds out a mug filled with coffee like a peace offering. “You’re not dreaming. I’m here. I don’t know why or how. But it seems I’m stuck in your world and I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who can send me back to mine.”
I look down at the coffee. Then up at him. Then back down at the mug.
The mug has a cartoon cat painted on its side and a caption that reads:
‘Be Nice To Me… Or You Could End Up Dead In My Novel.’
“Jesus. I’ve finally lost my fucking mind,” I mumble as I take the mug.
He tilts his head. “You don’t remember writing this scene, do you? The one where I’m in your kitchen shirtless, cooking bacon? With plenty of banter and sexual tension. Page ninety-eight, kitten.”
