Page 5 of Worth the Fight

Her eyes dart to her plate and then back to mine.

“I’m not that hungry.”

Bullshit.

My coffee scalds my tongue, but fuck if it doesn’t taste like heaven . . . and clears the cobwebs from my head that too much whiskey allowed to grow.

“That wasn’t what your stomach was saying in the car.” Not even a smile. Just a blush of her cheeks. Frickin’ women. “Is it that you aren’t hungry or more that you’re afraid I’m going to see you eat?” The quick blink of her eyes says I’ve nailed it on the head. “If that’s the case, it’s going to be pretty miserable having you sit on the couch next to me, starving to death and all.”

She meets the lift of my brow with the clench of her jaw. Still not even a crack of a smile.

“I’m watching what I eat.”

“Why?” I reach forward and help myself to a forkful of her pancakes. There’s no way I’m letting Bertha’s pancakes go to waste. They’re legendary.

“Because I need to.”

“Need to? You women are too harsh on yourselves.”

She opens her mouth and then shuts it as I study her. Raven-colored hair, kind of short, kind of edgy, kind of hot in a rocker girl way. Gray eyes so light they’re almost clear. A set of lips—damn, a set of lips that have blow job written all over them. Her shirt is baggy and earlier her robe covered her, but her body seems normal. No third leg growing out of her hip or anything.

But she’s self-conscious. A bit shy. Very uncomfortable in her own skin.

This isn’t the same woman I’ve seen in pictures in Damon’s house. That girl was full of fire and brimstone and a whole hell of a lot of rebellion.

No doubt the ex-boyfriend did this to her. From what Damon hinted at, it’s been a rough few days for her.

“Do you mind?” I reach my fork out again, and she pushes her plate toward me. I take another bite and smile. “You haven’t lived until you’ve devoured Mama Bertha’s pancakes.” Her eyes watch as I chew her food. “If you get hungry, your fork is right there. Your stomach will thank me.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

She’ll be eating them by the time we leave. I’ll make sure of it.

“So what brings you to Sunnyville?”

“Damon didn’t tell you?”

“Bits and pieces, but he’s a guy. We aren’t known for being real observant or forthcoming.”

“I needed a break.” Her eyes flit over my shoulder to where Bertha is chatting up the old-guy crew who come and occupy the counter every morning for a few hours. “Somewhere I could go and finish a project I’m working on.”

“Project?”

“Album. Songs. Whatever you want to call it.”

“I’m assuming having a studio helps. Wouldn’t it be easier to do that at home?”

Her eyes harden. “I wouldn’t be here if I thought so, now would I?” Ah, there’s the fight in her. “I can write lyrics anywhere. Besides, my place was kind of stifling my creativity.”

Hm. They must have lived together.

“Is ‘I needed a break’ code for ‘my boyfriend’s an asshole’?” Might as well lay the truth out there.

“Ex-boyfriend.”

“You or him?”

“Me but only because I was blindsided.”