Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 66480 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 332(@200wpm)___ 266(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66480 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 332(@200wpm)___ 266(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
"You cook often?" I asked, surprised by his apparent comfort in the kitchen.
"Every day." He laid strips of bacon in the pan, which hissed and popped as they hit the hot surface. "Can't stand takeout."
I moved closer, drawn by both the delicious smell and the chance to study his tattoos up close. I traced my finger along Italian script on his shoulder. "What's this one mean?"
He tensed slightly under my touch, then relaxed. "La famiglia è tutto. Family is everything." He cracked four eggs into a bowl, whisking them with a fork. "Got it when I was eighteen."
"Close with your family?" I asked, continuing to trace the tattoos on his back.
"Was." He poured the eggs into a second pan where he’d melted a generous portion of butter. "Like I said last night, it's just me now."
My fingers found a small, crude tattoo at the base of his neck, barely visible above his collar when he wore a shirt. A simple cross with a date. "And this one?"
"My mom." He stirred the eggs, his movements never pausing despite the personal nature of my questions. "The day she died."
"Sorry," I murmured, not sure what else to say.
He shrugged. "Long time ago."
The bacon sizzled, filling the kitchen with its mouthwatering scent. The coffee maker finally stopped its death rattle, producing what I hoped was drinkable caffeine.
He nodded toward a small sugar bowl on the counter. "Milk's in the fridge if you want it."
"Black is fine." I poured myself a cup, breathing in the steam. "Who taught you? Too cool.”
"My uncle. Same guy who taught me to wrench." Rocky plated the bacon and stirred the eggs again. "What about you? Ghost teach you to ride?"
"Yeah. Got my first bike at eighteen." I sipped the coffee. It was surprisingly good for coming from such a decrepit machine. "Nothing fancy, but I fixed it up with Ghost. Loved that thing." I felt a smile tug my lips as I remembered that time in my life.
"How long you had your bike?"
"Ghost gave it to me for my eighteenth birthday. I customized the hell out of it."
Rocky nodded appreciatively as he divided the eggs between two plates. "Thought I recognized quality work. You do the purple paint job yourself?"
"Every inch." I couldn't help the pride in my voice. That bike was my baby.
We ate standing at the counter, hip to hip, the casual domesticity of the moment striking me as strange. I barely knew this man, yet here we were, sharing breakfast like we'd done it a hundred times before. Had to admit, it beat the hell out of the whole awkward morning after scenario.
"You're different in the morning," I said, studying his profile.
He raised an eyebrow. "Different how?"
"I don't know. Less… intense. More..." I gestured vaguely with my fork, not sure how to explain it.
"Normal?" He offered with a half-smile.
"Yeah. Normal. Like a regular guy who makes great bacon instead of..." I trailed off.
"Instead of the guy who fucked you senseless last night?" His grin turned wicked.
I felt heat rise to my cheeks but held his gaze, trying to act like I did this shit all the time. He likely believed I did and I was OK with that. The less of a big deal I made out of the situation the better. Especially when the thought of not doing this — whatever this was — again made my chest ache. So far, I genuinely liked this guy and wanted to see him again, even if was only for sex. "Something like that."
Rocky chuckled, and I found myself laughing with him, the moment light and easy in a way I hadn't expected. As I watched him eat, those skilled hands that had mapped every inch of my body now handling a fork with casual grace, I realized I was in danger of liking this man far more than was wise.
After we finished eating, I knew I couldn’t put off leaving any longer. Much as I hated giving up Rocky’s T-shirt, I also couldn’t ride a bike in what I currently had on. Pants were essential.
I scooped up my dress from the floor, then whipped off the T-shirt and pulled my dress over my head. I grimaced at how the fabric clung in all the wrong places. The second biggest hazard of a one night stand? The morning-after walk of shame in last night's clothes. I tugged at the hem, trying to straighten what was now permanently wrinkled. At least until I washed and ironed it. Or just got it fucking dry cleaned.
"Need help with that?" Rocky leaned against the wall, watching me struggle with the zipper. His jeans still hung low on his hips, and he hadn't bothered with a shirt. The sight of his bare chest made me consider staying a little longer.
"I got it." I turned, giving him my back. "But you can zip me up."