Own the Wind (Chaos #1)(20)

I did this because my dad put his lips to my hair when he was holding me close and talking to me.

I liked it. I always liked it.

But this, with Shy, I loved it.

“Cherry said you felt shit, sugar. You feelin’ better?” he asked into my hair.

“Um… yeah,” I mumbled into his chest, seeing as this was my only choice since my face was smushed there.

His lips left my hair but he didn’t back away when he remarked, “Uh, Tab, just sayin’. You feel shit, eatin’ a mountain of three-month-old Christmas candy might not be the way to go.”

Obviously he spied my fall of candy wrappers.

He was also being funny but I didn’t laugh, though I did smile into his chest.

His hand at the back of my head slipped down to my neck. I pulled my face out of his tee and looked up at him.

Yes, concern, hotness… no, more accurately extreme hotness. That was it.

“You aren’t pissed at me?”

Yep. That was what came right out of my mouth.

His brows drew together. “Pissed at you?”

He seemed perplexed and I wondered, if he was confused about why he should be pissed, if I should enlighten him.

As was often the case with me, my mouth decided before my brain did and it started blathering.

“For not, um… when you were so cool with me that night, me not calling to say thanks for being so cool, which was uncool.”

His face relaxed, his startling green eyes grew warm and he replied quietly, “Baby, bein’ your safe harbor doesn’t come with me gettin’ pissed when you gotta do what you gotta do when you gotta do it. It also doesn’t come with me expecting you to explain why you did what you had to do. Bein’ your safe harbor means lettin’ you do what you gotta do when you gotta do it and not gettin’ pissed.”

That was a good answer.

And cool.

And sweet.

Crap.

He gave me a squeeze, let me go, then moved around me, sauntering with his long, lanky, loose-limbed, biker badass grace toward my couch, saying, “You’re feelin’ better, I’ll make you breakfast.”

I wasn’t listening, and this was mostly because I was engaged in watching him moving, bending, and scooping up Christmas candy wrappers, balling them into his fist. As I was occupied with this, I also was wondering how he could be all long, lanky, loose-limbed, biker badass while cleaning up Christmas candy wrappers. Further, as I always did around Shy even when I was holding my grudge, I was thinking he was all kinds of handsome. Thick, dark, overlong hair. Strong jaw that was so cut, it jutted out a bit at the hinges. Those green eyes. The Chaos tats on the insides of his forearms. The small silver medallions hanging from thin, black leather cords around his neck. The flat, black leather straps around his wrists that had thick, silver bands punched with insignias. The chunky silver rings on his fingers.

Amazing.

He turned to me, “Tab, honey, you want breakfast?”

I came to with a start and looked up at him. “Breakfast?’

“Yeah, breakfast. You’re feelin’ better, I’ll make you some.”

“I don’t have any food in the house,” I told him, and his brows went up.

“You don’t have any food in the house?”

“Well,” I did a quick mental inventory, figured he wouldn’t want tuna or ranch-style beans for breakfast then suggested, “We could have Pop-Tarts.”

His lips twitched and he shook his head. “Not sure Pop-Tarts are good sittin’ on mountain of Christmas candy. I’ll take you out.”

My belly flipped again.

He’d take me out?

For breakfast?

“Pardon?” I asked.

He tossed the ball of foil on my coffee table, it bounced off the other side, went rolling across the floor, and stopped a few feet in front of the TV.

“I’ll take you out for breakfast,” he mostly repeated.

My eyes left the ball of foil and shot to him.

“Uh…” I started then found, for once, my mouth couldn’t go on.

“Tab, babe.” He came at me. “Get a move on. Once you get dressed, we’ll go.” He made it to me, grabbed my hand, and pulled me to the mouth of the hall.

He stopped us there and I looked up at him, still frozen.

“Get,” he ordered softly. “Breakfast.”

Then he put a hand in the small of my back and gave me a gentle push.

Seeing as he pushed me, however gently, and my body’s momentum was taking me down the hall, I “got” and scurried to my bedroom wondering if I could have breakfast with Shy or even if I should.

But the fact of the matter was, he’d shown at my house after I hadn’t talked to him in six weeks, and he wasn’t pissed or in my face. He was concerned and wanted to take me out for breakfast.

So I hit the shower thinking I not only could do this, I should.

He’d faced our history straight on, guided us around it, and obviously, with the way he was being now, he intended to keep us firmly on that path.

And Tyra was right. He was Chaos, a brother, family. He’d done what any of the brothers would do that night, looking out for me.

Yeah, I definitely should do this.

Forty-five minutes later, I decided not only that I shouldn’t but I couldn’t.