I shook my head fast. I didn’t want to show this man any more weaknesses than I already had. “I wasnotshaking.”
I knew I was starting to sound petty. It didn't help that he wouldn't argue. Just had me out here looking petty on my own. He reached for the comforter and pulled it up over me in one smooth motion like he’d done it a hundred times. It was a little possessive but not outside my comfort zone because he was just so… gentle. My stupid body relaxed, accepting the rightness of his showing care for me. I hated that. I glared at him.
“You shouldn’t have it so cold in here.”
He blinked once. “My bad. We'll adjust it,” he said, and it sounded so sincere that it irritated me.
I sat up, swung my legs over the side of the bed, and stood, grabbing the robe that had been draped over a chair. The floorwas cool under my bare feet in the second before I slid them into the fur-lined slippers. The air kissed my skin and raised fresh goosebumps. I turned toward the bathroom, trying to shake off the annoying ache in my chest.
“Where you going?” he asked.
I glanced at him, glanced away just as quickly. “To the bathroom, then to find coffee.”
“You like tea,” he countered.
“I prefer coffee when I’m trapped in a mansion and need something to help me hold onto my sanity,” I shot back.
He just looked at me. “I’ll make it.”
I sighed. “I can pour my own coffee.”
“I’m sure you can,” he said. “Still.”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t trust my words not to betray me.
The bathroom was ridiculous, I thought. But I kinda loved the stone counters, spotless glass, and towels folded perfectly. I splashed water on my face and stared at myself in the mirror. I was a woman who had married a man she didn’t fully trust. I was also a woman who had slept next to that man all night without one worry.
It was truly annoying how weak I was.
I sped through my morning routine, then gave myself a little pep talk before I left the room. Downstairs, the house felt different in daylight. Oh, it was still big and expensive as hell. But it wasn’t as quiet and impersonal as I had thought. The soft clink of something from the kitchen and the smell of food drifting through the air made it feel warmer. My nose followed the smell before my mind could decide if I wanted to.
Targen was in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, moving around the stove like he belonged there. A skillet hissed on the big gas stove. He had a cutting board out and a bowl of eggs he was whisking like he had personal beef with them.
I stopped in the doorway.
“I thought you were trying to impress me with the one meal you know how to make. You really cook,” I murmured.
“I can survive,” he said.
“That didn’t answer the question.”
He glanced up, then back down. “That was a question? Yes, Theory Grace. I can cook.”
“What are you making?”
“Breakfast.”
I squinted. “You got a smart mouth for a man who just married somebody against her will.”
His eyes locked with mine again, then moved away. “Sit,” he said.
My brows lifted. “Don’t start.”
He lifted his hand slightly. “Not an order, shorty. A suggestion.”
“You do a lot of suggesting,” I muttered, but I walked over and sat at the island anyway.
A deep blue mug slid in front of me. My fingers curled around it before I could stop myself.
