Fighting Fate (Fighting Series) (Fighting #6)(15)

I snuggle deeper into the Downey-scented sheets and admire his entire backside: his broad shoulders that pull the thin fabric of a worn T-shirt taut, the mounds of muscle that jump in his back as he moves effortlessly in the small space of his kitchenette, rippling triceps, and the narrow waist that flares into a healthy round ass that holds up his heather-gray sweatpants. God bless squats.

He moves to put something in the fridge and catches me staring. Those whiskey-colored eyes shine behind black-framed glasses, his dark hair falls over his forehead, and the side of his mouth lifts in a crooked grin. “Morning.”

“Hey, you sure are busy at this ungodly hour.” I stretch and notice his eyes track down to my chest before he whips his head around to focus on the contents of his fridge.

“It’s almost nine in the morning, Ax.” He shuts the door, and his bare feet slap against the tile as he goes back to whatever he was doing on the stovetop.

“But it’s Saturday. Wait…” I prop myself up on my elbows, and I don’t have to see my hair to know I look like Beetlejuice. I can feel it. “Why aren’t you at the training center?”

He scoops something onto two plates. Score! “Blake and Jonah forbid it. Said I needed a recovery day.” He moves to place the plates on the small table, and I notice then there are two icy glasses of water already waiting.

I smack my lips together, my mouth feeling like I sucked on a sock in my sleep while the tang of metal mixes with the soreness from my piercing. “That’s probably smart.”

“Come eat.” He stands at the table with a shy smile that adds a boyish handsomeness to his intimidating size.

I hop out of bed and hit the bathroom then move to the kitchenette, smoothing down my hair as much as I can manage, which isn’t much seeing as I can still see it from my peripheral vision. “Going to bed with wet hair is never advisable. Don’t suppose you have a ponytail holder, huh?”

The corner of his mouth lifts as he studies my hair. “I think it looks great.”

“Ha! You’re such a liar.” I take a seat in front of a full plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and buttered toast. “Kill, this looks so good. I’m starving.”

He moves to the small bowl where he keeps his keys and comes back to drop a black ponytail holder next to my plate.

“Oh, you do have one?” A flicker of something really uncomfortable tenses my belly. “How do you have a hair tie in your place?”

He takes his seat and shovels a bite of eggs into his mouth, swallowing and lifting a brow. “How do you think?”

That uncomfortable feeling twists violently. “Oh, um…” Wow. A girl. Nice. I mean good for him. I slick back my unruly hair with a little more aggression than is required.

Nice to see he’s bringing girls to his place; probably cooks them breakfast too. Well, the ponytail holder is stupid and boring. Probably just like the woman who owns it—

“It’s yours, Ax.” I dart my eyes to him, but he’s focused on his food, chewing. “You left it here a few weeks ago.”

My cheeks flame and my shoulders cave in. “Oh, right. Well, thanks for holding on to it for me.”

He makes a sound like he heard me but leaves me in silence with my humility while I shovel food into my mouth. What the hell was that all about anyway? He’s free to date whoever he wants. The eggs are fluffy and buttery and the bacon just the salty relief required after a night of drinking.

Killian has been cooking for him and his mom since he was a kid. She never took very good care of him, or so he tells me. To this day I’ve only been around her once, and it wasn’t a pleasant experience. He never talks about her, but explains away things like his exceptional cooking skills, stain-removing techniques, and organization by saying he was forced to grow up fast.

“How’s the”—he motions to my mouth with his fork—“tongue?”

I swish with some cold water and hold back a groan at how good it feels against my heated mouth. “Sore.”

“I have mouthwash. After you eat, you should go clean it.”

He’s always taking care of me. “Thanks. I will.”

He forks a bite into his mouth and swallows; then his jaw clenches hard. “And Clifford, how’d he like it?”

Humiliation burns my cheeks, and I keep my eyes to my plate, even though I can feel him staring at me intently. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Guess him leaving you alone to pass out in his bed tells me all I need to know.”

I open my mouth to defend myself, but slam it closed because I have no defense. He’s absolutely right.

He scoops up his plate and tosses it into the sink with so much force I’m surprised the thing doesn’t break. “I’m gonna hop in the shower, and then we should get you home.” The slam of the bathroom door is the last thing I hear.

I’m left alone to finish my breakfast but have lost my appetite.

The water in the shower kicks on, and I take my plate to the sink. It doesn’t take long to do the dishes. Killian is a clean-as-you-go guy, so outside of our plates and glasses, there’s nothing more to do. Once that’s done I make the full-sized bed and plop into a chair, waiting for him to come out so I can brush my teeth, clean my piercing, and change back into my clothes.

The shower seems to go on forever, and the thought of what he might be doing in there makes my skin flush. I rip the rubber band from my hair and pull a higher ponytail on my head to try to get some cool air on my neck. It doesn’t help. Eventually the shower shuts off, and minutes later, he strolls out wearing a pair of jeans, bare feet, and no shirt. He’s not wearing his glasses, and his brown hair looks black, wet and combed away from his face, as he rifles through his drawers and throws on a tee. The second he pulls it on, I roll my eyes. It’s one of his favs, blue, and reads, “That’s what I’m Tolkien about.”