Extreme Danger (McClouds & Friends #5)(65)

“Uh-oh. You’ve figured me out,” he said. “I am so f*cked.”

“Ah, no, in fact. You’re not. Or rather. You won’t be.” Her back hit the wall, bumping against the rack where all her utensils hung. A ladle and the cheese grater slid off and clattered to the floor. “Got that?”

He looked wistful. “I’ve got that.”

His meekness made her suspicious. She waited for him to go. He started shrugging off his jacket.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, panic edging her voice.

He flung his jacket over the back of a chair, revealing a plain black polo shirt that did nothing to hide his unbelievable physique. “You got a problem with me sitting down in your kitchen?”

“Why?” Her voice was getting shrill. “What are you going to do?”

He looked elaborately helpless. “You tell me. What do a man and a woman do together when they’re not having crazy monkey sex? The imagination boggles. I don’t think I’ve ever gotten this far in a relationship with a girl. Not past the monkey sex, I mean.”

“Don’t you dare make fun of me, Nikolai—”

“We could argue about money,” he suggested. “I think that’s a big classic. Or maybe we could just, I don’t know. Have some dinner?”

“Dinner?” She squinted at him. “Are you being facetious?”

“I wouldn’t mind dinner,” he said innocently. “Got any food?”

She started shaking, with jittery laughter. It was too weird. A feral, mythical being from that dangerous otherworld she’d accidentally visited was smashing through the barriers of her bland little life. Sitting down at her kitchen table, and demanding to be fed.

“What do you want to eat?” she asked, at a loss.

“Anything’s fine,” he said. “I’m not fussy. As long as it’s not cheese soufflé, or crepes a l’orange.”

She burst into tears, so abruptly she shocked even herself, and stood there sobbing in the middle of the kitchen, embarrassed beyond belief.

“Becca! Oh, Jesus. I’m sorry. I was just joking. Bad joke. I didn’t mean to—aw, shit!”

Suddenly, he was hugging her. Which was wonderful. Her body drank in the sudden, delicious contact with his big, solid body, loving it.

She jerked away before she could disgrace herself further. “No. No, I’m sorry. I’m OK,” she babbled, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her nightgown. “Really. Fine. Just kind of shaky.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Of course not. Don’t worry about it.” She tried to smile, and skittered backwards until she hit the fridge when he reached for her again. “Don’t worry. How about an, um, omelette? And some toast? I think I even have some orange juice. Would that do it?”

He sank slowly, reluctantly into the chair again, looking worried. “Fine,” he said. “Are you sure you’re—”

“Fine. Great. Really.” She scurried around, yanking out bowls and utensils. As always, being busy helped. She pulled eggs out of the fridge, cracked the two she would cook normally for herself, and glanced over to where he hunched in his chair, black-clad, elbows on his knees, eyes gleaming like a panther poised to leap.

Four more eggs. She cracked them into the bowl. Stuck six pieces of bread into the toaster oven. Butter into the skillet, herbs, cheeses, a slice of ham to brown, that last handful of cherry tomatoes. Slice and dice, grate and toss, and by the time the toast was on the table and the omelette sizzling in the pan, she was feeling much more herself.

He’d already devoured all the toast before she even slid the omelette onto the big serving platter she’d chosen for his plate. She tossed in another six slices of bread without comment.

He dug in, sighing with appreciation at the first bite, and stopped with the fork halfway to his mouth, frowning. “Aren’t you eating?”

She shook her head, thinking of all the Oreos she’d devoured in her last desperate attempt at mood management. “Not hungry.”

He looked uncomfortable with that. “You have to eat,” he protested. “Here. Eat half of this.”

She suppressed the rush of tenderness. Tenderness with this guy could only end in disaster. She was already pushing her luck by feeding him. It was like giving food to a wild animal. It upset the balance of nature. To say nothing of the balance of her own shaky sanity.

“Go ahead,” she said. “Bon appetit.”

He gave her a long, slitted look, and gave in, going at the food before him with focused enthusiasm. In a couple minutes, he was wiping his highly polished plate with the last triangle of toast.

“You’re still hungry, aren’t you?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I’ll live,” he told her. “It’s lots better now.”

She got up and peered into her fridge. She didn’t have much food that was fit for a creature like him. He wasn’t the type to appreciate a no-fat lemon parfait yogurt, or a handful of sliced cucumbers. There was cream cheese and there were bagels. Good chew toys for wild beasts.

She hit pay dirt in the freezer when she found some of her frozen homemade lasagna. One of them was good for two meals for herself when she was alone. That should do it for him. She set one to nuke.

In the meantime, he finished off her bagels and the cream cheese, polished off the ham and drank every last drop of her orange juice. She set the lasagna before him. He practically inhaled it.