A Pound of Flesh (A Pound of Flesh #1)(106)

“Are you hungry?” she asked as he wandered around her sitting room, his eyes settling on her collection of watercolors.

He laughed. “I’m starving.” He rubbed his belly.

She placed her glass down and walked over to the fridge. “Let’s see what I’ve got.”

There wasn’t much, but there was enough to make bacon-and-tomato omelettes. Carter didn’t look convinced when Kat offered him as much, but she assured him she was a master at any type of egg cuisine.

Kat placed all the ingredients on the countertop. “Hey, Carter, can you cook bacon?”

Carter rolled his eyes. He shook out of his jacket. “Of course. Why?”

“I need you to brown the bacon while I take a shower.” She turned back to him and grinned. “Think you can handle that?”

“Please,” Carter retorted, grabbing the pack of bacon. “Go and have your shower, and leave this shit to me.” He grabbed her shoulders and moved her out of the way. “Be gone,” he said firmly, pushing her out of the kitchen space. He waved her away and gave her a grin that made his face crooked.

Kat held back the pathetically girly sigh threatening to break, and turned toward her bedroom. Once there she pulled off the sweater Carter had given her. With a swift glance back at the door—making sure she’d closed it properly—she held the sweater to her face and breathed in his cologne. It was lush and heady. She pulled it from her nose, folded it, and laid it on her bed.

Showered and redressed in black jeans and a Blondie T-shirt, and with her damp hair in a knot at her neck, Kat sauntered back into the kitchen to find Carter leaning casually against the counter, reading Walter the Lazy Mouse. She watched him turn the page, seemingly engrossed.

“How’s the bacon coming along?”


“Shhh,” he replied. His eyes never left the page as he put his index finger to his lips. “Walter’s asleep.”

Kat grinned. She grabbed a bowl, a pan, and a knife for chopping the tomatoes.

Carter moved around her and placed the book back carefully next to the flowerpot where it had been since Kat had left it there two days before. When she’d arrived back from Chicago, she’d read it aloud to a captivated audience of a framed picture of her father and a bottle of Amaretto.

Good times.

Kat was surprised at how well Carter worked in the kitchen. He seemed domesticated, which was, at the very least, sexy as hell.

“It’s rude to stare,” he pointed out as she watched him whisk the eggs.

“Sorry.”

She hadn’t even realized she had been staring; it was just the muscles in his forearm and the way in which they flexed and tensed as he moved fascinated her. Coupled with his tattoos, he was quite the sight to behold. She rubbed the back of her neck with her sweating palm, cleared her throat, and resumed her tomato chopping.

“You’re all flushed.” Carter’s voice came from behind her, directly into her left ear.

Kat’s spine straightened instantly. He put the bowl down next to her chopping board and leaned against the counter, trapping her between his arms.

“Wanna tell me what you’re thinking about?” he asked in a low rumble she felt in his chest pressing against her back.

She moved her head back, resting it on his shoulder. “No.”

Carter laughed quietly and ran his nose up along her jaw to her earlobe. “From the color of your skin,” he whispered, “I can bet it was something really f*cking good.”

“Mmhm.”

He laughed quiet and sexy. “Peaches.” His hands meandered their way to her waist.