Cheater (Curious Liaisons, #1)(23)

It’s sad when you start to like a guy based on the fact that he remembers you love pineapple on your pizza even if he picks it off his own piece because he hates pineapple.

I was too spoiled. Too set in my ways!

I would so not survive on the streets.

I groaned again and then finally got one eye open.

The room was pretty dark, which was weird since sunlight woke me up most mornings. My apartment faced east, so I always knew when it was time to get up. It would probably help my attitude in the mornings if I could afford curtains instead of those five-dollar blinds you get at the big-box store and cut to size. I must have failed scissors handling in grade school, because my blinds didn’t fit, not even close.

“Why . . . ?” I whispered hoarsely into the silent room, angry that I had let him get to me again, and even angrier that somehow I could still smell him.

All warm, and spicy, but like a hot whiskey spice—or pancakes. I sniffed, wondering. Why it smelled like pancakes. I didn’t have a roommate. And I didn’t cook.

I pried my other eye open.

My body froze.

Heart stopped beating.

Lungs collapsed.

Not my room.

I shrieked and pulled the covers up to my chin. Not my bed.

And then, the devil himself appeared at the door, sans shirt to cover his ridiculously cut body. Lucas smirked. “Morning. Was it as good for you as it was for me?”

My brain straight up exploded.

Muscles flexed against the doorframe. He held a spatula in one hand and a plate in the other. The aroma of awesomeness drifted to my spot on the bed, and my stomach grumbled.

“Great trick, by the way—you know, that thing with your legs. Though damn, Avery, no need to slap my ass so many times. And I mean, if you want to call me your daddy, that’s all you, but since I know your daddy, maybe cut back on all the dirty talk referencing him while orgasming.”

My eyes must have been as wide as saucers. I couldn’t find my voice, my stupid stomach was now growling, and he was still standing there, like we hadn’t just had drunken sex. Sex I couldn’t remember.

I quickly peeked under the covers.

I was still dressed.

“Lighten up.” He padded over to me and handed me a plate. “You were asleep before I kidnapped you. And since leaving you on the street corner would have been frowned upon, I had no choice but to bring you home.”

I frowned down at the plate. “Where’s my fork?”

His low-slung jeans and chiseled stomach were inches from my face. It wasn’t fair; I cursed fatness on him, his family, his dog, his cow—

“Here you go.” He pulled a fork out of his back pocket. “I thought it wise not to give you weapons until I knew without a doubt you wouldn’t stab me.”

I snatched the fork and smacked him on the hand with it anyway.

“Shit.” He jerked back. “I did a nice thing for you last night. You know that, right? Nice. Also known as doing a solid for another human without expecting anything in return.”

Glaring at him over the giant plate of pancakes, I stabbed a few bites with my fork and stuffed them in my mouth.

“Oh good, the silent treatment.” He winked. “Hurry up and finish your pancakes. My sister’s on her way over, and I’m pretty sure the last thing she needs is to see Avery Black in my spare bed looking—” He licked his lips.

“Ugh . . .” I swallowed. “Say it. I look like shit.”

“No ugh. I was going to say ‘looking like she’s been thoroughly screwed.’” He didn’t smirk, or wink, or do anything that would indicate if he was kidding, being an asshole, or just being plain honest.

“You’ve got syrup on your nose.” He swiped it off with his finger and walked away.

I stared after him like I’d just woken up in some alternate universe—one where somehow I was the Black sister who’d ended up with Lucas Thorn, and he was making me pancakes in bed.

Guilt stabbed me right in the chest. Because how many times had I wanted exactly that? How many times had I measured myself against Kayla? And come up short?

Did God hate me that much? To dangle crack-filled pancakes in front of me along with the man who got away? The same man who broke my sister’s heart? And damaged countless lives?

I entertained that conundrum for possibly thirty seconds before I shoved it away and finished my pancakes. He’d always been a good cook, which was just another thing that I hated about him.

Assholes weren’t allowed to be good cooks. Or rich. Damn it, he should have been poor! With a beer belly and adult acne!

With no choice but to do the semiwalk of shame into the living room, I gathered my hair into a low ponytail, located my shoes, and shuffled barefoot into the light.

Like a loser.

“Thanks.” I dropped my shoes onto the hardwood floor and washed off my plate, then found the dishwasher and loaded it. “For the pancakes.”

Lucas was staring at me over his coffee as though I’d grown five heads.

“What?” I shrugged. “What’s that look for?”

“Did you just clean a dish?”

“Bite me.”

“You never do dishes.”

“Lucas, as much as I’d like to shove our history up your ass and light you on fire, I can’t, you know, because I wouldn’t survive prison, and they don’t have Starbucks there . . . But four years is a long time. I’ve changed.” I sighed. “I mean, both of us have. I’m a mildly successful college graduate discovering what I want to do with my life, paying my own electricity bill and you”—I pointed to him—“you . . .”