SEVEN
Cammie
Sunday can’t come early enough. Between the show and dealing with Jared’s crap about the house, I’m exhausted. My eyes are heavy, my arms sore from holding the spotlight steady, and yet I’ve got two more shows before I can spend the day doing nothing. I roll to my right, ready to kick things in the guts, and let my gaze fall on the closed door.
Oh, that’s right.
I have a guest. Guess that rules out breakfast in my PJs on the couch while I binge on Netflix until show time.
I lie on my side, adjusting the blanket higher over my chilly shoulder, and listen for sounds of life from the other end of the house. Silence is all I get in return.
Maybe he left already?
The display on my phone reads a little after eight. As much of a stranger Duke is to me, he doesn’t strike me as the kind to over sleep. Then again, it was well after ten by the time we turned in. Perhaps he needs the rest?
Grow some balls, Cammie. Slip your legs out of bed, pull on your comfy cardigan, and face the man already.
My legs protest as I shuffle across my room to the built-in robe, and pull my extra-long, extra-thick cardigan off the hanger. Its instant warmth is a comfort, as are the bed socks I wore last night; there’s nothing as unforgiving as a cold hardwood floor first thing in the morning.
Well, except Jared.
No light spills from the living area other than the warm yellow hues of the morning sun. Birds sing their praises outside at the warming day as I round the corner and find the two sofas empty. I blink, lift a sleeve-covered hand, and rub my eyes.
It takes me a minute to piece together what’s wrong with this picture.
The sofa is stripped of the bedding I left out for him, the cushions barely wrinkled, which indicates he didn’t stay there long. Yet what catches my attention most are the feet poking out from where the sofa intersects with its shorter twin.
I shuffle farther into the room and round the three-seater to find Duke propped up with his back jutted into the corner where the two-seater meets the wall. The blanket is tucked under his chin, his hair messed up as he rests his chin on one shoulder.
My feet stay rooted to the spot while I contemplate the best course of action. Do I wake him? Is he the kind to get startled and violent when he wakes suddenly? More importantly, why the fuck is he on the floor like that?
I back away, careful not to disturb him, and retreat toward the kitchen. The electric jug starts its rumble after I flick the switch, my clumsy hands making the two mugs I pull out of the cupboard clang together.
I grit my teeth and set them down as gently as possible on the counter before retrieving the coffee canister from the cupboard. I manage to get a heaped spoonful in the first mug and then make it halfway through doing the second.
“Morning.”
I jolt, so sure he was still asleep. Coffee goes everywhere: on the counter, on the floor. I’m pretty sure some skitters across the tiles and under the fridge.
Damn it.
“Morning.” I offer a wan smile as I lunge right to wet the dishcloth under the tap.
Duke stands on the opposite side of the breakfast bar, shirtless. I completely miss the stream of water. Pretty sure if I’d been greeted with a full frontal I’d would have forgotten what it is I’m supposed to be doing.
His torso is cut, as in, ripped to all hell. Does this man ever consume fats in his diet? Holy shit.
“I spilled the coffee,” I verbally vomit.
“I see that.” His lazy one-sided grin returns as he lifts his previously concealed hand from behind the counter and reveals a T-shirt, which he then tugs on.
Thank Christ. Not sure my sex-starved libido could have handled much more of that first thing in the morning.
“How do you like it?” Far out, Cammie. May as well ask him if he likes to be on top.
His deep brown eyes zero in on my face as I’m sure I turn all shades of red. “Splash of milk, no sugar.”
“I took a chance that you were a coffee kind of guy.” I wring the cloth out, having successfully found the water, and then drop to my knees to wipe the floor.
It’s only when I hear him clear his throat and catch him turn away in my periphery, that I realise what being on all fours does to my pyjama top. Kill me now. I slam a hand to my chest to push the loose fabric back over my bare breasts, and rock back on my heels to finish the cleaning job in a more demure position.
“Toast?” I squeak out on broken tones.
“That’d be lovely.” He rounds the end of the counter and picks up where I left off with the coffees. “You take sugar?”
“One, thanks.”
“Sweet enough,” Duke mutters as he heads for the fridge to retrieve the milk.
My entire body feels as though it’s engulfed in flames as I rinse the cloth out under the cold water. I wring it and set it aside, then dip my wrists under the cool jet for good measure before I switch the tap off. I mean, shit, I knew the guy was cute when I laid eyes on him last night, but nine hours of sleep has attuned my senses somewhat. Last night’s eight on the roadside has rocketed to a definite ten. Or maybe that was the naked torso? Whatever it was, it doesn’t change the fact a smoking-hot guy is casually making me coffee as though he does this every single morning.
“Elixir of the gods,” he announces as he hands me my mug.
I take it with a smile, cradling the hot cup as he pops the lids back on the coffee and sugar canisters, and then pushes them to the back of the counter.
“That’s not where they go.”
He cocks an eyebrow as he glances over his shoulder at me. “Really? Where would you put them?”
I set my coffee down and then open the pantry door, pointing to my neat little spot at shoulder height where they line up on the shelf.
“But they’re easier to get to on the bench top.”
I give him the same look he graced me with, cocking my eyebrow. “But it looks cluttered.”
“So?” He frowns.
We stand a moment, squaring off over something as ridiculous as where my coffee and sugar should sit. Clearly sensing he won’t win this one, the muppet takes his coffee through to the living room, muttering to himself as he leaves.
On the bench top. Pfft. Is the guy crazy? Clean lines. I need clean and clutter-free lines in my house.
My house.
Not that it really is. I groan as I reach for my mug, mentally cataloguing the real estate agents I’ve looked into so far. Where do I even start when it comes to picking somebody who’s going to ensure the best price and not just push for the sale to close out one more deal?
Toast. Right.
“What do you normally have on your toast, Duke?” I call out as I retrieve my toaster from where it’s neatly tucked in the cupboard beside the pantry. Suppose he’s going to say he leaves that on the counter, too.
“Anything,” he calls back. “I’m not fussy.”
Yeah, only when it comes to how I arrange my kitchen. I roll my eyes at the thought and retrieve the half loaf of bread I have.
By the time my coffee is finished, I have a plate stacked with options for Mr “Not Fussy”. Jam, peanut butter, Vegemite, and Nutella.
He turns from where he’d been poised before the French doors, empty mug slung casually from his thumb.
“Hungry?” he teases.
“Thought I better cover all bases.” I make sure to hold my pyjama top close to my chest as I bend over and set the plate on the coffee table.
He points to the seven-piece setting in my dining room. “You have a dinner table, you know.”
“Exactly. It’s a dinner table. I never eat breakfast or lunch there.” Come to think of it, I hardly eat dinner there either, since it’s been just me.
Just me …
“You pick what you’d like first.” He takes a seat on the sofa closest to him.
I avert my gaze from his taut boxer-briefs. He could have at least wrangled some pants in the time it took me to make us food. Standing, his T-shirt may cover … certain things, but seated …
“Problem?”
Smug bastard knows there is. “You’re half dressed,” I say, swirling my fingertip in his direction.
“And you’re in your pyjamas still … braless, if I’m not mistaken.” Kill me now. He leans forward and snags a peanut butter slice, despite telling me to pick first. “So where’s the problem?”
I take the one remaining peanut butter and sit opposite. “Are you always this difficult?”
His eyes lose all trace of humour, the slight tilt to his lips diving into a downward curl. “Eat up, Cam.”
The fact he picks up on the shortened name those close to me use warms my chest a little. Only a handful of people call me Cam, one of who doesn’t deserve that privilege anymore.
“What time is the truck coming?” I ask between bites.
He shrugs, rolling the next slice—Vegemite—into a kind of Swiss roll and shoving it in like a piece of damn sushi.
“Might pay to find out,” I say.
“Thought, being a Saturday, the guy might not be at work yet, given he knocked off early yesterday, and all.”
“True. Try him after breakfast. Knowing Archie, he’ll have his work phone on him anyway.”
We sit in silence while he polishes off six slices to my two. His eyes track me as I make my final bites, his gaze unsettling in its intensity as he waits on me to finish and then collects the plate. I lean back on the sofa and eye his wide back as he carries the dish to the kitchen and repeats the same process as last night.
“You know,” I call out. “If you hang around for a few more meals, I might actually fill that damn thing enough to use it.”
He looks down at the open dishwasher, the plate held steady in his hand. “Do you not?”
“Nope.” I chuckle.
“Oh.” His brow furrows adorably as he works out what to do.
Keeping the plate in hand, he removes the knife I used to make the toast, and the dishes from last night. I kick my feet up as he searches the cupboards for the dishwashing liquid, loving this domesticated vision, even if it isn’t mine to have.
“Woman,” he growls. “Where the hell is your dish washing stuff?”
“With the other cleaning supplies in the bottom of the pantry.”
He groans, dragging a hand over his face before he shuts the cupboard beneath the sink. As much as I’d love to mess with him some more, I need to get dressed if Archie is going to show up later this morning with the tilt-tray.
“I’m going to run through the shower, okay?”
“Make sure you don’t slip,” he calls back as I head for the hallway.
“Pardon?”
“You said you were going to run through the shower.” His head pops around the corner of the wall, that lazy grin back again. “I’d advise against that on wet tiles.”
“Smartarse.”
I leave the room, smiling like a damn fool as I make my way back to my room to get a change of clothes. My heart thumps painfully hard before racing a mile a minute as I come to a grinding halt in the doorway. With a shaky hand, I reach out and brace it against the doorframe as I realise this stranger in my house made me do something I’ve struggled to do for years.
I just walked down the hall without twisting away from her face.
And I didn’t even have to think about it.