Ryker
I wake up with nothing but cool sheets and an empty pillow beside me, and my first thought is that Justine left. She ran. She’s gone.
I roll out of bed and stride into the kitchen, pissed that she would bail after last night. Pissed that she’d walk without even telling me to go fuck myself first. She’s a woman and therefore mercurial in mood. But she’s also Justine, so she’s beyond unpredictable.
Anger is rushing through my veins and I’m headed for the counter to grab my keys, intent on tracking her down because I’m spoiling for a fight. You don’t have a night like we did last night and then just disappear without a word.
Is this how all those girls felt when I bailed before morning? Is this poetic justice at work?
But all my introspection evaporates when I see Justine reaching up into the cabinet beside the stove, wearing nothing but my Captain America T-shirt from last night. It rides up, exposing the curve of her ass as she reaches to the top shelf to grab something.
I’m dumbstruck. Silently, I drink in the vision of her in my kitchen.
She hums to herself as she pulls down the nonstick spray and uses it on the frying pan. I still can’t find any words as she sets the pan on the burner, tests the heat, and spoons in white batter in three spots.
Pancakes?
Justine Porter is in my kitchen, naked except for my shirt, making pancakes.
I must have done something very, very right in another life to be rewarded this way.
She turns and reaches for a drawer, I’m assuming to look for a spatula, but sees me and screeches.
“Jesus Christ, you scared the shit out of me!” She slaps her hand over her heaving chest in the vicinity of her heart. But let’s be honest—all I see is braless tits bouncing in my shirt.
Striding toward her, I back Justine into the corner of my kitchen, trapping her in the circle of my arms, my hands pressing against the countertop on either side of her hips.
“I thought you left.” The words come out harsher than I intended from the residual anger. I hadn’t planned to say them at all. Hadn’t planned for her to know I was freaking the fuck out, but they came out anyway. “I thought I was going to have to drive over to campus and bang down your door to find out why you bailed on me.”
Both of her dark eyebrows arch up. “Really? I have a feeling that would be a case of the pot calling the kettle black, if you know what I mean.”
“I wanted you in my bed when I woke up.”
“And I wanted pancakes.” She twists to look at the stove and the batter in the frying pan. “Which need to be flipped.”
I don’t give a shit about the fucking pancakes. Not when I’ve got her in my arms, all sleep-tousled hair, no makeup, and looking sexy as hell. But Justine is intent and more awake than I am. She ducks out from under my arm and yanks open a drawer to remove the spatula.
“They can burn for all I—”
Justine turns, and with lightning-fast reflexes, smacks me on the ass with it.
“What the—” I start, rubbing the stinging spot on my ass.
“They are not going to burn. I may not be good at much in the kitchen, but I make kick-ass pancakes.”
She turns her back on me to flip them, but not after shooting me a smirk as I rub my ass again.
A couple of minutes later, Justine slides three perfect silver-dollar pancakes onto a plate and sets it on the bar. “You can have the first round. They’re a little bit darker than I was going for on the one side, but that’s your fault.”
I might be a guy, but I’m not completely stupid. There’s a sexy-as-hell woman in my kitchen, mostly naked, and she’s feeding me. I’m going to eat the fucking pancakes.
“They look better than anything I can make.”
“Then eat.” Her smile is bright and cheery and proud.
I head for the cupboard to find the syrup as Justine pulls the butter out of the fridge. As I sit down and doctor up the pancakes, she starts another batch. I’m more interested in watching her than I am in eating, but I’m not about to let them get cold and have her hard work go to waste.
But that doesn’t mean my brain is running down this road of how fucking good it feels to have her here.
One night. We had one night together, and all of a sudden I’m putting her in my kitchen every morning in my head.
What is it about this woman that gets me so tangled up? She’s different. She’s a challenge. I should be content now that I’ve gotten her in my bed, but I’m not. I take in every detail about her, but I still want to know more.
She flips another batch and joins me a few minutes later at the bar. We eat in companionable silence until she freezes with her fork in midair, pancakes headed toward her mouth.
“What’s wrong?” I follow her gaze to the bowl of crap on my counter. It’s supposed to be a fruit bowl, according to my mother, but I’ve only ever tossed mail, keys, change, and other random shit in it.
Justine’s gaze is locked on the Pez dispenser I bought the night before I was supposed to be at her apartment to help her move. I was headed home from the bar and had to stop to get gas. When I went inside the gas station to get a soda and some chips, I spied a Pez display and couldn’t resist. It was my attempt at being charming, and we all know how that worked out.
“What’s that?” Justine asks, lowering her fork to her plate, uneaten pancakes still speared on the tines.
“Exactly what it looks like.”
She pulls the cardboard and plastic package from beneath a pile of mail and stares.
Yoda.
Because who the hell doesn’t like Yoda?
“You bought me Pez?” Her eyes find mine, and disbelief colors her tone.
“Yeah, I saw it and thought of you, so I bought it.”
She’s holding the package like it contains solid gold and not plastic in the shape of one of the most recognizable Star Wars characters ever.
“When?” The question is quiet, and as soon as it falls between us, I don’t want to answer.
But I’m not going to lie.
“The night before I was supposed to be at your house to help you move. I didn’t blow you off, Justine. Something came up and there was nothing I could do. I didn’t have your number, so I couldn’t call or text. I still feel like shit over it, and I’m sorry.”
My apology is the sincerest I’ve ever delivered, and yet I still can’t tell her the truth.
She drops her eyes from mine to Yoda and back to me again. “You didn’t intend to blow me off.”
It doesn’t come out as a question, but I know it is.
“No. Never.”
“So, what the hell happened?” Her expression pleads for an explanation, but I can’t give her one.
“I can’t tell you. Just know . . . if there was anything I could’ve done to change that morning, I would have.”