Dylan
I wasn’t expecting her to be standing in the kitchen.
Her high, piercing shriek nearly ruptures my fucking eardrum, sending a chill through my bones. Not even running naked through the snow would give me a chill like that.
My ears are still ringing after she stops.
Fucking hell. The girl has one powerful set of lungs and sure knows how to use them.
While most of my senses are still recovering from that shriek, my eyes are totally fucking glued to her body.
I frown, scratch my head, and try not to stare.
Really, there’s absolutely no reason to stare. Her tits, her hips and her ass are all covered, hidden by my massive red and black checkered flannel shirt.
On me, the shirt is always a little tight around the shoulders, but on Emma, the shoulders are down by her elbows. The damn thing is so big it looks like she’s wearing a fucking tent instead of one of my shirts.
As my gaze travels from the top of her head all the way down to her feet, I catch a glimpse of the black pants I gave her last night. I can’t see much of them, since the shirt nearly goes all the way down to her ankles.
If she would’ve asked me, I would’ve told her not to even bother with those pants. They’re rolled to a thick sausage at the bottom of her legs, seeing as how they’re about several miles too long for her. I have no fucking idea how she’s keeping them up around her waist.
Her feet are bare, and I can see she’s painted her toenails pink. Inwardly, I roll my eyes. Pink fucking nail polish.
At first glance, the whole picture is a bit of a sorry sight. It’s not just the clothes, either. The soot that’s still all over her hair and face isn’t helping much.
But as I stare at her, she’s still starting to look incredibly sexy. No amount of soot or ill-fitting clothes could cover that up for long.
Her puppy eyes briefly meet mine, and I see a jumble of emotions. She drops her gaze, but I keep mine on her.
I’m not quite sure what’s wrong with me, but I could stare at Emma dressed like this forever.
Briefly, I imagine her perfect tits hidden in the bulk of flannel, her pussy buried under flannel and cotton, and her curves so inaccessible and yet so close.
To my annoyance, my fucking cock is stirring. The last thing I need to add to my growing fucking pile of problems is a fucking hard-on right now.
Come on Dylan, I admonish myself. Think of something else. And stop fucking staring and undressing her with your eyes, for fuck sake.
I clear my throat.
“You’re up.” Smooth, Dylan, real nice. “Good morning.” A little better, but she’s throwing grenades at me with those gorgeous, perfect, cloudless princess-blue eyes of hers.
“How does breakfast sound?” I ask. Maybe it’s time for me to stop.
Emma’s eyes lose some of their hostility, and for a brief moment, they widen in surprise.
“Well…I can’t cook.” Emma punctuates her response by sticking her chin out defiantly. She’s clearly confused about what I’m offering.
“Lucky for you, I can,” I reply, walking over to the stove where Emma’s standing. I wrap my fingers around her shoulders and gently move her out of the way. “You can watch from over here.”
First thing’s first: I start boiling a kettle of water and put together fresh mix of tea leaves to brew. After all Emma’s been through, I’m sure she could use a hot cup of tea—and not that lukewarm crap from last night.
As the tea brews, I start getting together ingredients to cook a really good breakfast to go with it.
“You’re not one of those vegans?” I ask, unwrapping a slab of bacon to cut a few thick slices. Bacon should be thick—I could never stand the paper-thin excuse for bacon you find at the supermarket. “Or on one of those gluten-free, wheat-free, fat-free, food-free organic water diets?”
I watch as she shakes her head and the corner of her lips curl up a little. I nearly got a smile out of her.
“Eggs okay?” I ask. “They’re fresh.”
Again, Emma only nods. I’m only making breakfast, the same thing I do every damn morning, but she seems to be mesmerized by every move I make.
“Where…” Emma starts a question but stops herself after one word.
Either this ordeal has left her shaken to the core, or Emma’s changed in more ways than I’ve realized. This is not the feisty, ready-to-argue-any-point Emma I know from the past.
“I keep chickens in a coop,” I reply, assuming she was about to ask where I get fresh eggs.
I watch Emma digest this. A frown appears, and her forehead creases, making her look a bit angry. I’ll admit, there’s a part of me that wants to walk over to her and kiss those wrinkles away.
There’s no fucking way I’m going to do that, of course.
Get a grip, Dylan, I remind myself.
With one hand, I crack open the first egg and empty into a bowl in a quick, fluid movement.
“Scrambled or fried?”
I like mine scrambled, and I haven’t made eggs any other way in years, but I want to give Emma the option.
“Uh…” She’s staring at me, her lips are parted a little, and I think I can see the tip of her tongue. “Well, what, I mean…however you’re having yours,” she finally blurts out.
“Scrambled it is.”
With my trusty whisk in hand, I beat the eggs, watching the egg yolk and white in perfect harmony. I whisk vigorously, making sure enough air gets in, and they end up as light and fluffy as scrambled eggs should be.
I rummage around my pantry, finding the salt and pepper.
Next, I heat some oil for the bacon in my blackened frying pan. I can’t add the raw bacon until the oil is sizzling, or else it won’t fry properly. I wait patiently until that oil’s sizzling good and proper before adding the thick slabs I’ve cut for our breakfast.
When I turn around to grab my tongs, I notice Emma watching me intently. Our eyes meet for about a nanosecond, then she quickly drops her gaze.
Part of me is still surprised she hasn’t acknowledged who I am. She still hasn’t called me by my name, and she doesn’t really seem to recognize me at all.
I turn up the flame on the stove. As far as I’m concerned, you don’t slowly fry bacon—unless you’re trying to ruin it for some reason.
With the bacon sizzling over one burner, I pour the egg mixture into another pan and turn on the heat.
“Where...” I hear Emma start another question, and I turn to look at her. My insides tighten, and I raise an eyebrow to show I’m listening. “Where do you get your bacon? Do you kill your own pig?”
I laugh and turn my attention back to cooking.
“I traded some bear skin for bacon. If you know how to look after it, you can keep it for several weeks without a problem.”
Out of the corner of my eyes, I see her nod. She seems to be chewing on the bottom of her lip, something I’ve known her to do when she’s nervous. I wonder what she’s nervous about?
The soft egg mixture is setting in the pan, and I turn off the flame. The bacon will need about another sixty seconds, so I use the time to pour Emma a fresh mug of tea.
I hold the mug out to Emma.
When she takes the hot steamy mug from my hand, our skin touches for the tiniest moment, causing Emma to flinch and pull her hand away as if she’s been electrocuted.
I grimace. Typical.
Emma never liked me in the past, and it’s not going to be any different out here in the wilderness in the middle of fucking nowhere.
I glance at her, but her eyes are still downcast. She’s gone from lost puppy to frightened deer.
If things were different, I’d go over and wrap my arm around her. I’d kiss her on her neck and whisper sweet nothings in her ear to reassure her everything is going to be alright.
“Is something burning?”
Her soft question rouses me out of my daydreaming.
“Fuck,” I growl, and lift the bacon out of the pan.
I inspect it—luckily it’s not burnt, yet. The edges are tiny bit darker than I usually like, bordering on black.
Oh well. I divide the semi-burnt bacon and scrambled eggs between two plates.
“Breakfast is served,” I announce, carrying the plates to the table and setting them down.
I pull a chair out for Emma and sit across from her.
It’s difficult to focus on eating. I find myself staring at Emma as her manicured fingers handle her knife and fork as she cuts a small piece of meat. She brings it up to her mouth, and I can’t ignore the sight of her lips as they open, her tongue poking out a little as she makes room for her mouthful of food.
Emma swallows, closes her eyes, then takes another mouthful.
“This is very good,” Emma says. “Thank you.”
My mouth suddenly feels really dry, as if I’ve spent a week, or five years, in the desert with no water.
“No problem,” I mumble and take another bite of eggs.
“So, could you tell me exactly what happened again last night?”
“Fire,” I grunt.
“I mean, you’ve already said that my apartment was on fire. But that doesn’t explain what you were doing in my apartment, or how you knew about the fire, or how it started...”
Emma keeps talking, but I keep losing focus of her words. I’m too taken by her presence in my cabin.
At my table.
She’s really here.
After all this time, I don’t have to watch her on a little security screen. I can feast my eyes on her in real life.
“Come on,” she complains and bashes the table with her fist. Her knife and fork rattle loudly. “I’ve got a right to know what’s going on.”
“There’s not much more to tell. There was a fire, I was close by, and I rescued you.”
She leans forward, arms on the table. “You…were close by?”
Of course, she’s got a point. But it’s not like I can tell her what’s really going on.
As Emma leans nearly halfway across the table, I notice how much soot is still in her hair and on her face. She’ll want to have a bath, I’m sure.
“If you want, you can clean up in the bathroom.” That didn’t come out great, but at least it stops the questions. Whatever she was about to ask dies on her tongue.
“A bath would be good. Do you have hot water?” Emma peers at me suspiciously.
I laugh. “Come on, I’ll lead the way.”