Bad Things (Tristan & Danika #1)(16)

I waved him off. “Go back to bed. I’ve got it. I know you must be feeling rough.”

He sent me a rather stern look. “Give me five minutes. I said I’d cook for you. I’m cooking. And you have to be feeling just as rough.”

“I’m fine. I’ve got this.”

He pointed at me. “Don’t go near the kitchen until I get back.” He strode away, and I made a face at his retreating back, though I was secretly pleased, and still shamelessly checking him out. I’d seen what he could do with cookies. I wanted more.

Normally I just had a Greek yogurt for breakfast, but hungover and hungry, I was already planning to indulge.

I sat down on the couch when I heard the shower in my bathroom turn on. There was plenty that I needed to do, but I just sat there for a solid five minutes, my mind on Tristan in the shower.

He was back out quickly, wearing a fresh white T-shirt and jeans, his short hair still wet from his shower.

“Come keep me company while I cook,” he said, tugging me up from the couch.

“So bossy,” I muttered.

He completely ignored that statement, pulling me into the kitchen. He cupped my hips, lifting me onto the counter exactly where I’d sat to watch him bake cookies.

He moved away before I could do more than gape at him.

“So Mat wants pancakes for breakfast. What do you want?”

I opened my mouth to tell him I’d just take that, but he spoke again. “I know you don’t want pancakes. We need something salty and greasy. Let me whip us up some hangover food.”

I had to make a conscious effort to close my mouth. “You read my mind,” I said.

He had the sheer gall to wink at me. “No. I’ve just been hungover enough to know just what to do. So tell me why Mat called you boo? Is that a nickname?”

“Yes.” I didn’t elaborate.

“That’s adorable,” he said opening the refrigerator and studying its contents. “Where did it come from?”

“I don’t remember when it turned into an actual nickname, but we used to play peekaboo a lot. He named himself peeka and me boo, and it stuck. Two years and counting.”

“Well, boo, how does bacon sound?”

“Bacon sounds great, but you can’t call me boo.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re not a rapper, and I’m not your shorty.”

He laughed, a low, deep rumble that made muscles in my stomach tighten. “You’re just making me like the nickname more. Here’s the plan, buttery biscuits, scrambled eggs, bacon, and some hash browns. Oh, and some blueberry pancakes for the kids. Any objections?”

“That sounds amazing,” I said, meaning it. “But it’ll take forever.”

He shrugged. “It’ll take how long it takes. What’s the rush? You got a date?”

I sighed. He was stubborn, to be sure. “Can I help?”

“You can entertain me while I work.”

“If you have this handled, I should probably go work on some chores.”

“If you want bacon, you’ll keep your ass right where it is while I cook you breakfast.”

I did want bacon. “I can’t believe we stayed out that late,” I said, thinking back to the night before. I’d never stayed out that late dancing, and I’d never had a night fly by so fast.

“We going again tonight?”

“Are you joking?” I asked.

“No. Didn’t you have fun? Let’s do it again.”

“You’re batshit bonkers.”

“Sure am. And I want to take you dancing again. What do you say?”

“We barely got three hours of sleep last night.”

“So we’ll take turns getting naps in later, if the kids need watching. What do you say?”

He was giving me his most irresistible smile, his dimples making me want to slap and/or kiss him senseless. I held out for maybe five seconds before I was smiling back at him.

“No funny business,” I told him.

“No funny business,” he agreed. “I took care of that in the shower. Should tide me over for a solid two hours.”

I blushed. I hadn’t even known I had any blushes left in me. “What happens after two hours?”

He stopped what he was doing, setting an egg down to give me his full attention.

He gave me a once-over that was borderline indecent, then went back to cracking eggs. “I might need to take another shower.”

That shut me up for a while. I watched him work, studying the myriad of tattoos on his arms, and the ones that showed through his white T-shirt. As he mixed the pancake batter, the stark muscles in his arms working, I thought that I’d found my new favorite hobby—watching Tristan cook anything at all.

“Bev has this really great frilly pink apron,” I told him. “What would I have to do to get you to wear it while you cook for me?”

“You don’t even want to know, boo,” he said.

That effectively shut me up again.

Within ten minutes, he had the kitchen smelling divine. I moaned as the aroma of sizzling bacon reached me.

His gaze flicked to me, then quickly away. “Tease,” he muttered.

He had the pancakes done first, prepping a heaping plate for Mat.