Chapter Eight

Belle

The scent of waffles and crisping bacon woke me up several hours later. Rolling over, I eyed the clock on Drake’s bedside and realized it was still only eleven a.m. That shocked me. It felt like our lovemaking had lasted hours, like it should be close to sunset by now. I felt completely tuckered out. Of course, I’d been running on adrenaline for the last day between our fight and my flight and then those men…

I’d had a long thirty-six hours, to say the least, and having it culminate in the best experience of my life was even more confusing.

I didn’t know where I was going. Now that I’d felt Drake and had him inside of me, I had to hope that it was like tasting a drug for the first time, and that I’d be able to break free if I needed to. There was still such darkness lurking underneath Drake’s surface, and I didn’t know when I’d stumble over something that would set him off, like in the library’s hidden chamber. I just didn’t know where any of this was going to lead, but for right now I was willing to let it go, to hope I didn’t lose my heart or my reputation in the process.

Slipping my clothes on, I hurried down the halls—glad I was beginning to get a feel for the layout of the estate—and followed my nose to a new kitchen. This one must be for prepping for guests, since it wasn’t anywhere near where Leonard had taken me last night. As I entered the kitchen, I had to marvel at the fact that it wasn’t Leonard or Mrs. Johnson cooking. No, instead, I watched as Drake, dressed in jeans that hugged his ass and that same tight tank from this morning, finished flipping bacon in a pan and started hunting for a plate to set it on.

“Well, don’t you have people for this?” I asked with a coy voice.

He finished saving the bacon from dying an overcooked death and turned off the stove before turning to face me. “I figured you might be hungry. To be honest, I was starving when I woke up, and Mrs. Johnson is at the market getting ingredients for dinner and Leonard is overseeing the groundskeepers today. Besides, I can cook.”

“Can you?” I said after taking a seat at the table set up across from the massive stove setup. The thing had to have at least six burners. “I think a taste test would be in order.”

“Oh, you’ll be wrong about this, princess. I’m quite the chef,” he said. Then he set the plate of bacon and waffles before me. But it didn’t stop there; he also set out fresh-squeezed orange juice, a collection of chopped tropical fruits, and of course strawberries and clotted cream for the waffles. “I’ve been up for a couple hours. You are about to lose a bet in the most delicious way possible.”

I chuckled and sipped the juice and had to keep myself from moaning, much as I had this morning. Damn, he was right. I’d only sampled the O.J. and it was already better than any Tropicana I’d ever had. Then I dug into the bacon, my stomach hankering for some morning grease, and I nodded my approval.

“I guess I was wrong. You know,” I added as he dug into his own plate. “If that whole billionaire PR guru thing ever fell through then you always have the culinary arts.” I started into the waffles and decided I might just marry Drake if only for the room service. “Where did you learn to do this?”

“You assume I’ve never cooked because I have staff now?”

“Well, yeah. I also didn’t learn to cook myself until I came home from college. Mom was done with cooking,” I hedged, not wanting to admit it was a survival skill since Mom was actually too sick to cook. “I spent a year practicing not just turning food into charcoal briquettes. You’re really good. I’ve eaten at restaurants that have ripped me off compared to this.”

He nodded. “Well, believe it or not, I sometimes have a hot head.”

“Do you now?” I said.

“Maybe some of it, I dunno, I bottled since I came home from my post. I sometimes have those spells… that trauma bubbles up and I can’t control it. That’s different, but I never was a fan of having people tell me what to do. I joined up with the Marines after 9/11 because I felt that I had to, that my country needed me.”

I wasn’t sure if he noticed that his fingers were tracing over the scar over his eyebrow as he spoke, as if that tangible connection to his time in the service was something he needed to keep speaking about it.

“That’s so noble,” I said. I’d only been about six or seven when it had happened. I barely remembered anything, except my parents watching the TV and crying, which had made me cry because my parents never did things like that. Reaching out across the table, I slid a hand over his. “Thank you for doing that.”

“I don’t need thanks,” he said curtly, pulling his hand back. “It just seemed like the right thing to do. I tended to mouth off a lot in basic. I learned eventually to finally keep my mouth shut, but that was after more turns at mess hall duty than I could count. Turns out I have some cooking skills. Marines: Be All You Can Be, even if that’s Emeril Lagasse.”

I snorted at that and sipped more juice. “I definitely don’t think that’s gonna catch on with their recruitment flyers. I… you don’t have to talk about that time. I can tell it affected you.”

“Thanks. But I can definitely relate my harrowing tales of peeling potatoes and making sloppy joes for an angry fort of recruits with no hesitation. It sucked, but at least I can fend for myself when Mrs. Johnson takes the weekends off. Now,” he said as he stood up and began cleaning his own plate in the sink. “Hurry up. The boat leaves in an hour.”

“For what?”

“You’ll see.”