Page 29 of The Risk Taker

I ignore him, even though my stomach twists, and reach for the first shirt I can find—a crumpled team tee from the laundry pile—and toss it at him. It hits his shoulder and slides to the floor.

He laughs, but doesn’t even bother to pick it up as he flicks the burner off. “Didn’t think anyone else was up.”

“Hard to sleep through the smell of burning,” I say, moving toward the coffee maker, starting a new pot.

I try to keep my eyes on the mug, the counter, the coffee dripping slowly into the pot, but my brain refuses to cooperate. It keeps noticing things, like the stretch of his back when he turns back to the stove again, the faint crease running down his back where he slept. The way his hair is sticking up on one side, flattened on the other.

The red mark on his shoulder. Theexactplace I bit him in my dream.

Fuck. Knock it out.

He reaches up for a glass, the muscles in his arm shifting under skin that shouldreallybe covered by a T-shirt. He fills it with water, takes a long drink, and glances over at me.

I nearly drop the mug when his eyes find mine, worried he’ll figure out I was looking at him.

“You’re awfully twitchy this morning,” he says, leaning against the counter. “Bad dreams?”

“Just didn’t sleep well.” I pour the freshly brewed coffee into the mug, hoping the movement looks normal enough to hide the way my pulse is still jumping.

“Weird. You usually sleep like you’re dead. It’s freaky.”

I shrug and take a slow sip. The coffee’s bitter, scalding, and still not strong enough to wash out the image of him from earlier, of me jerking awake, still half in that dream, with my heart pounding and the sticky evidence of the dream on my crotch.

“Want breakfast?” he asks, nodding toward the pan.

“Not for whatever’s in there,” I say, my nose scrunching at the smell. “Smells like charcoal.”

He checks the pan, frowns, then laughs quietly. “It’s not burnt. It’s just… crispy.”

“Right.” I take a sip. “Because that makes it sound better.”

He grabs a towel, tosses the pan into the sink with a hiss of steam, and shrugs. “You’re welcome to take over if you think you can do better.”

“I can,” I say, pushing off the counter. “Move.”

He grins as I make my way over to him and shifts aside as I grab the pan, scraping out the black bits and running it under the water before placing it back on the stove.

I move to grab a bowl and crack a few eggs into it, plus a few pieces of bacon and a handful of grated cheese. When the pan starts to heat up, I quickly add a spoon of butter, hearing the sizzle, which lets me know it’s ready for the eggs to go in.

Logan leans against the counter beside me, watching me. “God, you’re such a control freak,” he says. “You can’t even let me make breakfast without supervising.”

“Because I don’t want food poisoning,” I say, pouring the eggs into the pan.

He huffs out a laugh, and I keep my eyes on the pan, trying to pretend he’s not right there. But I can feel him, especially since he’s close enough that his arm grazes mine every so often.

“I thought cooking was easy for you. Why do you look so serious?” he asks with that teasing tone that snaps me out of my thoughts.

I shoot him a glare. “I’m gonna throw this spatula at your head if you keep talking.”

He scoffs, wagging his brows. “Kinky.”

I shake my head and focus my attention on breakfast, moving the pan around to cover the bottom with the eggs.

“What the hell is that smell?” Ryan asks as he appears in the doorway. I glance over my shoulder, seeing his messy hair sticking up in every direction. He rubs one eye with the back of his hand, blinking against the light as he steps into the kitchen.

“Logan attempted to make eggs,” I mutter, turning my attention back to the stove to fold over the omelet.

“That tracks,” he says with a chuckle. “Burnt food and a side of nipples. Good morning to me.”