The girl that walks into the kitchen looks a lot different from the one I found in my parking lot this morning.

She's rocking those old pajamas I gave her, with the drawstring of the pants pulled in as tight as it'll go and the waistband still sits low on her, hanging on to those hips in a way that makes me jealous. She's got the old t-shirt pulled together and tied in a knot at her waist. It's still a loose fit, not like she's trying to show off her body or anything, just trying to keep the shirt from falling down to her knees, I'm sure.

It still pulls the shirt tight over her tits and makes it impossible not to notice that she ain't wearing a bra, and where the fabric's knotted shows off a good bit of skin where her waist dips in between her ribs and her hips.

The cuffs of my old pajama pants are rolled up several times and yet she still manages to trip of the extra length as she heads toward me across the room.

"Thanks for the pajamas."

She joins me in the kitchen, leaning against the counter next to the stove where I'm standing. Her voice lacks the sarcastic bite I'd gotten used to and I admit I kinda miss it. The softness coming out of her now is so feminine, almost song-like, and it goes straight to some part of me that isn't my dick.

I can handle the parts of her that make my dick twitch. I haven't had a chance to get away from the store long enough to feed the fucker in months. Last night was supposed to be my chance and-- well-- that pretty much went to shit.

Hell yeah, all those curves leanin' up against my counter and those tight little nips poking against the worn out fabric of my old t-shirt making my cock hard as a fucking rock just from having her standing so close? I can deal with that. Hell, I expect that. But the way my gut tightens when I glance over at her and she gives me this shy little smile? I don't know what the fuck that is and I don't know if I want to find out.

"Sorry I don't have anything that's a better fit," I tell her, letting my eyes wander down her body all the way to her mint green toenails. "Nice toes," I tell her with a nod toward her feet.

She curls her toes under her feet, like she's embarrassed that I'm looking at them.

"Thanks," she says, "I should have gotten them done right before I left-- they're looking pretty beat up now."

I turn my head back to my cooking but I watch her from the corner of my eye. She tensed up there when I was looking at her. Ordinarily I'd think maybe she was feeling the same attraction to me as I am to her-- the look on her face when she first saw me this morning comes to mind. Hell yeah, ordinarily I'd be sure I had a shot to do whatever I wanted to the cute little thing standing in my kitchen.

"My name's Jordan," she tells me suddenly, like it just dawned on her that she's got a name at all.

She turns slightly toward me and gives me a big, legit smile.

Maybe bringing her in wasn't such a bad idea after all, I think as I try to keep my smile to myself. Yeah, maybe I'm not as off my game as I thought.

"Stryker." I tell her my name plainly with a half grin in her direction that's part hell yeah, we can be friends, and part pure wolf.

"Your name's 'Stryker?'" Her smile takes on a tight, disapproving quality and her eyes narrow like she doesn't believe me.

I nod slowly, but I stop watching her and go back to paying attention to dinner. That tone is back in her voice, making it obvious that nothing I do is going to impress this chick.

"Yup, my name's Stryker," I taunt her a little, daring her to accuse me of making it up.

"Of course it is," is all she says. Just a little hrmph noise coming out of her throat as she pushes herself away from the counter and crosses the kitchen behind my back.

"You got anything to drink in here?" I hear her open the fridge and move things around.

"Plenty of beer," I tell her without turning to look at her.

In the reflection on the microwave door over the range, I can see her bent over behind me, that ass of hers up in the air just waiting to get grabbed.

I close my eyes and shake my head with my jaw locked and then I turn my head and shoot Ninja a death glare that oughta tell her how much trouble she's in for talking me into bringing Jordan up here.

Damn dog. I swear the mutt's trying to kill me here.

"You don't mind?"

Jordan's back at my side, holding up one of the dark brown bottles from the lower shelf in the fridge. Figures she'd go for the good stuff and not one of the cans of mass produced American lager from the case I brought home last night-- stuff I've got more of in the walk in down stairs.

I'm trying to be put out by it but I gotta admit, I don't meet many chicks who like their beer dark. Hell, I don't meet many chicks who like beer at all. Fuck it-- I don't meet many chicks.

She might be a pain in the ass and I don't have a fucking clue how to read her, but she's damn fun to look at if nothing else and I haven't had a conversation longer than "How are ya today," and a purchase total with anyone but the dog in over a year.

Jordan can drink all the damn beer she wants.

"Nah, help yourself," I tell her.

"You want one?" I hear her pull a bottle out of the fridge behind me and then the unmistakable sound of a bottle cap being pried open before I can say hell yeah.

"Thanks," I take the bottle from her.

If I was a fancier guy I'd tell her where the glasses are and have her pour the beer like the guys that brew it tell me to. Something about letting it get air and warm up or some shit.

I take a pull straight from the bottle and let the cold liquid wash down my throat.

I don't know what the fuss is, the stuff's fucking delicious just like this.

"This is good," Jordan's standing next to me again but farther away this time.

I can't smell the raspberry scent of her towel dried hair or the crispness of whatever soap she used from where she is now. I guess that's fine and all but she took that other feeling with her when she put space between us and it's killin' me not to reach over and drag her up close to me just so I can feel it again.

Whatever it is, I'm not sure I like the way it feels when I'm feeling it but I sure as hell know I hate it when I'm not.

"Yeah, couple guys I know own a brewpub up in Bend. They make good shit," I sound like an idiot, babbling about the beer like I know anything about it other than how to drink it.

I just want her to stop hating me.

And maybe come over here again and let me get another whiff of that shampoo.