Mystery Man (Dream Man #1)(22)

“Nope,” he replied, “verbal reports. ‘She went to J’s, got soup and noodles, then to 7-Eleven for a diet grape.’ Shit like that.”

Unreal.

“Why?” I asked.

“Why?” he repeated.

“Why did you and your boys follow me?”

“Babe,” he replied then he dug into his noodles with his chopsticks as if this was nothing, him and his boys following me, sharing reports about my food and beverage preferences, intruding into my life without my knowledge. Then my eyes dropped to his food and his noodles looked like nothing but noodles and veggies. No sauce. No cashews. No peanut bits. No succulent shrimp. None of the good stuff. Nothing. Just noodles and veg.

This reminded me of the first time I saw him when we were at a restaurant. He had a steak, baked potato and steamed vegetables. I remembered noting then, somewhat drunkenly, that he didn’t have anything on his potato. Not sour cream. Not bacon bits. Not cheese. Not even butter.

“What are you eating?” I asked.

“Noodles and veg,” he pointed out the obvious then shoved some into his mouth with his chopsticks.

“Just noodles and veg?”

He chewed, swallowed and said, “Yep,” then shoved more noodles in his mouth.

“No sauce?” I pushed.

More chewing then swallowing then, “Babe, I ate like you, I’d get a gut. In my work, you can’t have a gut.”

I felt my blood pressure rise. “Are you saying I’m fat?”

The double dimple threat popped out and, chopsticks loaded with noodles and veg halfway to his mouth, he replied, “Sweet Pea, the way you eat means you got tits and ass. This is good because I like tits and ass. This is bad because Tack and Lawson like ‘em just as much as me.” Then he shoved his noodles and veg into his mouth and said with his mouth full, “Tack maybe more.”

Shit.

“I need to focus on work,” I announced.

He stretched his long legs out in front of him, crossed his feet at the ankles, clearly planning to stay awhile, and replied, “Then focus.”

I glared at him. This was bad since he looked good stretched out in my office like that. Tracy and I had painted the walls white but I’d had the guy at the hardware store squirt a hint of orange in the paint so the white had warmth to it. My desk was long, white, sleek, narrow and girlie. My shelves were white and likewise girlie. The narrow, square tables on each side of the couch were equally white and girlie. My couch was cushiony and salmon-colored with chartreuse and peacock blue toss pillows. I’d decorated heavily in light wicker and had white ceramic, circular, lacy shaded lamps dotting the space. It wasn’t OTT girlie, all pink and ruffled, but it was definitely feminine space.

Sitting on my couch like that, Hawk looked like an invading conqueror enjoying a meal, bulking up before expending the effort to rape and pillage. Except he wouldn’t have to rape, all the townswomen would line up for their turn.

Shit.

I swiveled to face my desk and sniffed my soup. Lemongrass. Yum. I swirled it with my chopsticks then took a sip.

Then I asked Hawk, eyes on my computer, “What’s your real name?”

“Cabe Delgado.”

He answered without hesitation and my head turned to him in surprise.

“Cabe Delgado?”

He shoved more noodles into his mouth and didn’t answer.

“What kind of name is Cabe?” I asked.

He swallowed and captured more noodles, muttering, “Who the f**k knows? Ma’s a nut.”

His Ma was a nut.

Interesting.

“Is Delgado Mexican?” I pressed.

“Puerto Rican,” he answered, again without hesitation.

“You’re Puerto Rican?”

“Look at me, babe, not full-blooded Scandinavian.”

Nope, he was definitely not that.

“Were you born in Puerto Rico?”

“Nope. Denver.”

A rare Denver native. Surprising.

I, on the other hand, was not a native. Dad had moved Meredith, Ginger and me to Denver from South Dakota when I was ten but I didn’t share this piece of information because Hawk probably already knew that.

“So your parents are Puerto Rican.”

“Dad is. Ma’s half Italian, half Cuban.”

No wonder. Puerto Rican, Italian and Cuban – the perfect ingredients for a hot, bossy, badass cocktail.

His brows went up. “Is this focus?”

Guess someone was done sharing.

I turned back to the computer, fished in my soup with my chopsticks, secured a big prawn, pulled it out and ate it.

Fresh, spicy, brilliant.

I washed the prawn down with another sip of soup. Then I tried to focus on work with Cabe “Hawk” Delgado stretched out on my couch. Unsurprisingly, I was completely unable to do this but hopefully I was successful at pretending I could.

I’d finished my soup, leaving the mysterious bits uneaten in the bottom (I loved that soup but those mysterious bits freaked me out and I never ate them), taken a sip of my grape in preparation for the next culinary delight and opened my noodles when Hawk approached my desk, bending as he moved to snatch up the discarded bag.

He shoved his container in the bag while I pretended to ignore him and he was reaching for my soup container when I heard, “Hawk.”