Finally, when a sliver of light begins to peek around the drawn window shade, I fall back asleep.
Groggily, hours later, I wake slowly. My head feels stuffy, and though I know why I couldn't fall back asleep easily, I don't remember anything that happened in my dreams. All I know is that there's a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, and the comforting weight of Mac’s arm is gone.
Though the shades are still drawn, I can tell by the bright sunlight peeking around the edges that it’s broad daylight. I sit up, rubbing my eyes, and stretch widely. I yawn, looking about the room, but Mac isn’t here.
I lay in bed, thinking about the day ahead. Is it safe for me to go home? I have work to do in town, and I can't get any more behind than I already am. I can't do anything that would endanger me, though. I'm not sure what to do about that. I check my phone, to see if there's a message from my father, or my mum. But there's nothing.
I throw off the bedclothes and get out of bed, yawning and stretching. It’s pleasantly warm in here, and well-lived in. Just seeing his t-shirt slung into a laundry hamper and a cap on the dresser with his keys and leather wallet make my heart thump a little faster. God, I’ve got it bad for him. It’s just so ruggedly masculine here. So is Mac.
I hear something clanging around in the kitchen, so I tentatively open the door.
I grin to myself before he sees me. He’s got headphones on, and he’s… dancing? I cover my mouth with my hand, quietly sneaking out to get a better view without him seeing me.
He’s wearing nothing but a pair of boxer briefs, kind of doing a little sidestep dance while he's stirring something in a frying pan on the stove. He can't hear me approach, because of the headphones. And I'm not really sure he'd be okay with me spying on him like this. But oh my God, he's so hot. I don't know if there's anything hotter than a strong, muscled alpha male, dancing half naked in his kitchen like nobody's watching, doing a domestic task. But this is definitely something I could get used to.
I make it all the way to the doorway before he sees me, and when he does, he nearly jumps out of his skin.
“Holy crap!” he shouts, whipping off his headphones and tossing them up onto the counter. He stands, his hands on his hips, staring at me. “How long have you been watching me, lass?” His brows draw together sharply in that bossy way of his I’ve come to crave, though his lips twitch at the corners.
“Oh,” I say with a shrug. “Dunno. Few minutes, anyway.”
“Is that right?” he says, his eyes glittering dangerously as he prowls toward me.
“Now, Mac…” I begin, when he pounces.
I find myself pushed up against the wall, my hair wound around his fist as he tugs my head back. “You should’ve told me you werethere,” he chides, right before he spins me around and cracks his palm against my arse.
I squeal and giggle, trying to skate away from him, but his grip in my hair only tightens.
“Maybe so,” I retort. “But you shouldn’t be embarrassed, lots of men dance while making breakfast half naked.”
That earns me another sharp smack, and I yelp out loud. Still.Hot.
He shakes his head, then turns me around and half-drags me into the kitchen.
“I’m fucking starving,” he mutters. “This will have to wait until later.”
“What’sthis?”
He only gives me a warning look that makes my heartbeat quicken.
Pulling out a chair at the main table, he gestures for me to take a seat. I do, and my stomach aches with hunger at the smell of fried eggs.
“You cook?” I ask, a little surprised. My brother doesn’t cook, since we’ve got staff that does that.
“Aye,” he says. “We don’t have to, got a cook up at the main house. But Mum made sure all her children had the skills they needed. So aye, I can cook.”
“A smart plan,” I say, nodding my head as he pushes a small plate with golden wedges of fried, buttered toast to me.
He sits across from me in his pair of boxers.
“Got any jam?” I ask, pushing up from the table.
“Might be some marmalade in there,” he says around a mouthful of food. I walk over to his fridge and open it. He’s got a few protein shakes, some apples, a loaf of bread, a carton of eggs. No marmalade.
I walk back to the table. “Now that’s a bachelor fridge if ever I saw one,” I say with a laugh.
I don’t bother to hide the fact that I'm ogling him. Since he hasn't put on any more clothes yet, he’s still sitting at the table in all his manly glory, muscles and everything, in the little pair of boxer briefs that do nothing to hide his very impressive manhood.
