Chapter 11

Where the hell are you? Are you kidding me with this? I’m sitting in Savage’s living room alone. Like fully alone. You’re not here.

JUNE

Honey, I am so sorry. I was on my way out of the door when Alex started throwing up. She’s come down with a really bad case of the flu. I had to check on her. I was about to call you!

This is a nightmare. I am in a nightmare.

Are you guys safe out there?

I think so, yeah. I mean the house is cozy, so that part’s fine. But June…

I know, Han, but you’re going to make it through this, okay? It’s just a couple of nights.

Try one.

They say the storm is going to last a couple of days.

I’m choosing not to believe that.

Because that meanta couple of days with Savage. Alone. And that was so not happening.

A door slams in the hall, and I tuck my phone back into my purse and try to arrange myself in a way that looks natural and not like I’m having a mini-heart attack. I place my hands on my lap and sit up straighter. This is how people sit, right?

He heard you. He totally heard you.

Nope, not today Satan-brain.

Iam not going there right now!

Savage enters the living room wearing a pair of gray sweatpants and a tight white T-shirt, his hair still damp from the shower, and then it hits me. The universe hates me. It actually hates me, because I can see everything.

Savage’s sweatpants leave nothing to the imagination. There are ridges. There are shapes. Very large shapes.

He clears his throat, and I lift my gaze to his face. “You want something to eat?”

Is that a trick question?

“Eat?”

“Sure. It’s getting late. I was going to run through some moves with you guys before dinner, but the storm fucked that idea.”

“Uh, yeah! That would be great. Thanks.” I get up and wipe my hands on my yoga pants. I figured we’d spend most of the day training, so I’d only need the yoga pants, underwear, PJs, shirts, that kind of thing. “Do you need any help?”

Savage’s gaze wanders to my legs, then back to my face. “No.”

“I believe you mean, ‘no, thank you.’”

“I mean, no. No. Stay on the sofa. Where you are. That is what I mean.”

“Wow. Look, you don’t want to do this any more than I do, but there’s no need to be rude,” I say.

“I’m not being rude. I’m being practical,” he says. “Stay out of the kitchen.”

“You worried I’m going to cut myself, and you’ll have to report back to my brother?”

He sweeps that hot brown gaze over me again. “That is the least of my worries.” And then he walks into the kitchen and starts opening cupboards and slamming pots around.

What do I do?

I open my purse and root around inside until I find my eReader, then I bring it out and switch it on, tucking my legs underneath myself.

But reading only makes me think of what Savage is reading, and his gray sweatpants, and the way he doesn’t want me near him. I’m spiraling so hard I can barely breathe.

“Would you like a glass of wine?” Savage asks.

“That would be nice, thank you.” I don’t look up from my book, even though I’ve read the same line like fifty times over. “You know, the storm won’t last that long. I can be out of here before you know it.”

“Doesn’t make a difference to me.”

“Sure it doesn’t. I’m sure you want me crowding up your ranch house with my Hannah-ness.” I gesture toward myself and turn around. My heart flips at the sight of him pouring wine into two glasses.

“This is the safest place for you to be.”

Right. Bodyguard. Of course. “Where were you this morning?” I ask. “If you’re supposed to be watching my back at all hours of the night and day on Cash’s command, then how come you weren’t at my apartment?”

“I had to set up a couple of important things for your safety. I had a friend watching over you while I was busy.”

“What does that mean?”

Savage comes over with the wine and gives it to me. Our fingers brush as I take the glass, and I moan.

I actually… moan.

Is this real life?

Savage’s eyes widen.

I pretend to cough. “Sorry, something caught in my throat.” It’s my shame. “Thanks.” I take a sip of wine and almost choke on it, then smile at him. “Yum. White wine.”

“You don’t like white? I don’t have anything else.”

“It’s great!”

Savage stands there and watches me.

“Are you sure you don’t need my help making dinner?” I ask.

“I should give you a tour.”

“Huh?”

“Of the house.”

“Uh, okay, that’s kind of sudden. Weren’t you in the middle of making?—”

He takes my hand and electricity streaks up my arm and through my body. My nipples pucker at his touch, and it”s such an intense reaction to him, I lose my breath. But I am not moaning, and that’s a step up from a few seconds ago, so I’m counting it as a win.

Savage releases my hand then gestures to the leather sofa, the flatscreen TV, and then to the glistening kitchen with its granite tops and dark wood counters. There’s one of those kitchen islands with a rack of copper pots and pans hanging over it. “This is the living room and the kitchen.”

“You don’t say.”

“This way.” He points to the hall.

I walk out ahead of him, my skin prickling at the proximity. I take a sip of my wine for sustenance then grimace. The last time I had too much to drink?—

Nope. Nope. Not going there.

Savage stops in the hall and points to one of the doors. “That’s your bedroom.” He shifts his hand over to the door on the far left. “That’s a room you won’t enter.” Then points to the back door. “And you never leave the ranch house through that door.”

“What?”

He takes a sip of wine. “Tour complete.” And then he goes back to the living room.

“You should never have told me that,” I call out. “About the rooms and doors, I’m not supposed to use. That’s going to make me want to go through them even more.”

“Do you always say everything that pops into your head?” Savage asks.

I enter the living room and sit down, tucking my feet underneath myself. “Yeah, you should try it sometime. It’s freeing.”

Savage keeps chopping and cooking. He doesn’t ask what I want or if I’m allergic to anything, but I don’t care, because I’ve got a front row ticket to his thick, muscular forearms working as he makes things. For me. To eat.

Never going to happen.

Those words are so painful, but I have to remind myself of them. Lightning cracks outside, illuminating the curtains that hang over Savage’s front windows, and I jump a little at the sound that follows. The rush of rain grows stronger. “This is serious, isn’t it?” I ask.

“What?”

“The storm.” I bring my phone up and tap on the screen. No cell signal.

“I’ve heard that about weather warnings,” Savage says. “That they’re serious.”

I snort then cover my mouth and nose, but Savage doesn’t look up. He’s smiling though, the tiniest smile, and it makes my insides twist. I hate that I can’t have him, and that I want him in the first place. I hate everything about this situation. And most of all, I hate how stupidly handsome he is, how caring, even if he’s gruff. How I don’t know him that well, and I never will.

And that is exactly why I’m going to put on my track shoes and run the minute this rain stops. Run away from this town.

“Almost done,” Savage says.

I bring my gaze up to his face. “Do you like to cook?”

“Don’t usually do much cooking unless I have a guest,” he says.

“I thought you don’t like to entertain.”

“I don’t.” And he scowls at me.

What the hell? “Are you angry at me?”

“No.”

“I mean, you could have fooled me,” I say. “You keep frowning at me.”

He shrugs and continues cooking.

“Great talk.”

I sigh, and lay back on the sofa. It puts him out of my line of sight, which is a good thing, since I’m tired of wanting what I can’t have and loathing myself for it. Delicious smells drift from the kitchen, lemon zest and melted butter. My mouth waters.

“The last time I cooked for someone was sixteen years ago.” Savage’s gruff voice is audible just above the sizzle of whatever he’s frying in the pan.

I sit up and open my mouth to reply, but no words come out.

His gaze remains on the stovetop.

“Sixteen years?”

“Yes.”

“For a woman?”

Savage’s jaw tightens, his face hardens so fast, it’s scary. “Yes.”

I swallow, scanning him. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For whatever happened,” I say. “If something did happen. Or?—”

“Dinner’s almost ready.” The words are full of restraint.

“Great. Thanks for making dinner. I could have helped, you know, I really don’t mind.”

“No.”

“Right.” I sit back and watch him, my heart pounding. Did Savage just open up to me a little? Did we just have a tiny shred of a conversation that wasn’t something to do with me or Cash, or this town?

He doesn’t want you, remember? He said nothing will ever happen.

But he didn’t say that he doesn’t find me attractive.

Savage is the kind of man who relies on actions, and his actions have been flawless over the past ten years. He’s tried to help my family, he’s been there for Cash and even Jesse through every struggle, he’s kind to Alex, and he loves animals. And even though he doesn’t seem to like being around me, he still helps me.

He’s a good person. He’s just not my person. And I’m not going to beg for him. I’m going to leave.

Simple.

The storm continues, the lights flicker overhead, and finally, Savage plates up the food. He walks over and offers me a hand again, but I don’t take it, because I’d prefer not to spontaneously orgasm when he touches me.

I brush past him, and he makes a low noise that rumbles through the living room. I can’t tell what it means.

“I’m starving,” I say. “Thank you for—” My gaze falls to the plate and my jaw drops. “Wow. Is this chicken piccata?”

“Yes.”

“That’s crazy. I love spicy food, but nothing beats that lemony bite and the butter and the capers. Chicken piccata is my favorite meal.”

Savage sits down at the kitchen island with me and cuts into his chicken. “I know.”

“You know?”

“I heard you mention it at a potluck dinner.”

I scratch my head. “When?”

“Five years ago,” he says.

I drop my fork with a clatter.

“Too much lemon?” he asks, tensing.

I shake my head, mute, and stare down at my plate.

Savage keeps on eating like he didn’t just shake me to my core.

“You—You remembered that I mentioned I like chicken piccata five years ago?”

“You said you saw it in an episode of Friends, and you decided to try it out for yourself,” Savage replies, and then eats another piece of chicken.

My stomach does something weird. A swooping sensation that travels up to my chest and clogs my throat with emotion.

Am I going to cry over chicken piccata?

“Food’s getting cold.”

And that’s all he says. That’s the only explanation for this. I’m caught between wondering if I’m reading too much into this gesture, or if Savage might not hate me. The latter seems impossible, but chicken piccata? After five years?

I take a bite of chicken, and it’s perfect, because of course it is. It’s the most perfect chicken I’ve ever tasted.

“Thank you,” I say.

Savage spears me with that dark-eyed gaze and holds it. “Is it good? Are you happy?”

“Y-Yeah.”

The tension bleeds out of his shoulders as he returns to his meal.

What the hell is going on?