The Purest Hook (Second Circle Tattoos #3)(15)

The mirror was brutally unforgiving. Bed-shaped hair and an oversized T-shirt were so far away from sexy it was tragic.

Pixie hurried to the door and peered through the peephole. Oh God. He was standing there in dark jeans and a black T-shirt that highlighted his pecs. The anchor he wore was visible. In his hands were the most spectacular dark flowers she’d ever seen.

“I saw the peephole go dark, gorgeous,” he growled, his voice still rough. “You going to let me in, or make me stand out in the hallway like an idiot?”

Pixie opened the door. “Come in,” she said hoarsely.

“Oh no, Pix.” Dred placed the flowers and a small bag down and put his hands on her shoulders. “I gave you this, didn’t I?”

She let go of the door. It was hard to deny the obvious. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.” Seeing him chased the frigid edges of the nightmare away.

“No, it’s not fine. I showed up at the studio to give you these.” He tilted his head in the direction of the flowers. “But Lia told me you had a crap night.”

Seeing him like this in her home made the last few days seem very real. Kissing Dred at the concert was fantastical, a sublime moment in the otherwise mundane existence she’d deliberately built for herself. Now it was just plain surreal. He was so big he filled the hallway, yet she felt safe.

“I was asleep when you knocked. Can I get you something?”

“Are you kidding me? No. Come, sit, and show me where everything is so I can make you something. Here”—he grabbed the flowers and the bag—“these are for you.”

Pixie tried to smell the flowers, but couldn’t. “I’m sure they smell great,” she said with a sniff.

She led him to the kitchen, picking up a vase from the living room on the way.

“I love your place,” Dred said looking around.

“It’s Lia’s. I rent a room here.”

He pulled out a stool at the counter. “Sit. Scissors, where are they?”

“Top drawer.” She nodded across the kitchen. He retrieved them and took the vase, filling it with water, before he placed it and the scissors in front of her.

“I can whistle up a scramblette.” Dred opened the fridge.

“A scramblette?” Pixie started to cut the ends of the flowers and placed them into the vase.

“Oh, sorry,” he said, closing the door to look at her again. “Back in the home, I used to try to make omelettes, but somewhere along the way, I always f*cked it up. The guys used to call it a scramblette, and it stuck.”

Despite how shitty she felt, Pixie laughed. “A scramblette sounds perfect.”

They worked alongside each other. Pixie cut all the long stems and arranged the flowers in the vase and bit back a smile as Dred desecrated the kitchen.

“What’s in the bag?” she asked.

Dred turned to face her, wooden spoon in hand. Perhaps it was the way his stark head-to-toe black made a shocking contrast to the pale green kitchen counters and black-and-white checkerboard tiled floor, or maybe it was the way he dwarfed the pink and chrome table and chairs, but Pixie let out a laugh.

“What?” Dred asked, confusion marking his features.

“This,” Pixie spluttered, waving her hand between the two of them. “It’s a bit . . .”

Dred smiled at her, flipped the gas off, and paced toward her. “A bit what?”

“Bizzaro. Strange. You making me breakfast, while I look like death. Here. In a condo that was paid for with the proceeds from the sale of a Jackson Pollock. It seems too strange to be real.”

Dred leaned onto the opposite side of the vintage breakfast bar Lia had picked up from an old-school diner. “Just because it’s strange, doesn’t mean it can’t be perfect.”

He reached for the brown bag and pulled out a square wooden object and a small book the size of a single-picture photo album. “Trent told me how crafty you are, so I bought you something practical too.”

Pixie took them from him. It was a wooden flower press. And the book was obviously an album for putting the pressed flowers into. Heavy cardstock and velum. The thoughtfulness of the gift moved her.

“This is beautiful, thank you.”

Dred ran his fingers over the back of her hand, the calluses on his fingertips rough against her skin. “You’re welcome.”

After breakfast was devoured, Dred set up blankets and pillows on the sofa. When Pixie made a move to curl up at the opposite end to Dred, unwilling to risk passing the cold back to him, he simply pulled her toward him until she was lying down with her head on a pillow on his lap.

For all the bright sunlight coming in through the windows, and the fresh air blowing in off Biscayne Bay through the balcony doors, the condo felt cozy. Dred stroked his fingers through her hair, the effect altogether soothing, and a little exciting.

“I’m glad I stayed an extra day,” he said after their third movie.

“You’d likely be healthier if you’d gone home.”

“Really, Pix? Actually, wait a minute. What’s your real name?”

Pixie wasn’t sure what to say. Bringing who she once was into the conversation tainted the potential of where the conversation was going.

“It’s not a trick question, Pix. I escaped too, and I don’t like to talk about it either.”