Own the Wind(20)

I moved to the door, rolled up on my toes, and looked out the peephole.

Then I stopped breathing.

Shy was out there, his head tipped down looking at his boots, but even with head tipped down, face mostly obscured, he still looked hot.

Crap!

Now what did I do?

As I stared out the peephole, his head came up, his brows drawn, and he looked at the door. I was a little surprised he didn’t look pissed or impatient. Instead, he looked a little perplexed and a little concerned.

He lifted his hand and no bell this time, he knocked. Loud.

Oh God.

What did I do?

Before my mind figured it out, my feet took me running toward my hall, then they shifted me and sent me back to the door while my mouth shouted, “Coming!”

Okay, I didn’t know what to do but my feet and mouth did, and apparently that was acting like a dork.

I hit the door, unlocked the locks, threw it open, and standing there was all the hotness that was Parker “Shy” Cage.

My belly flipped.

Crap.

“What are you doin’—?” I started but didn’t finish.

I didn’t finish because his hand snaked out, hooked me at the back of my head, and yanked me forward into a forced face plant to his chest. The instant I was there, his other arm wrapped around my waist, he shuffled us in and kicked the door closed with his boot.

Then I felt his lips hit my hair and I went completely still.

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.