6. Breakfast

brEAKFAST

T he warm, sizzling scent of bacon brings back memories of my mother's cooking, making the room smell like a lazy Sunday sleep-in kind of day, with a whole lot of awesome heaped on top.

Maybe Peace Springs isn't so bad after all?

As much as I want to stay in bed and soak up the warm feeling, I need to get up and greet my hosts. Swinging my feet around, a neatly folded stack of clothes catches my eye.

My clothes.

They sit on the nightstand beside my bed. Did Bert wash and dry my clothes while I slept?

Or was it Drake?

A glance toward the door confirms it's shut, but after the bathroom incident last night, I pad over and check to make sure it's securely latched. A few minutes later, I have both beds made and I've changed into my jeans. This time, I only put one shirt on, instead of seven.

My teeth feel fuzzy, and the fullness of my bladder pinches. Opening the door, I peek into the hallway, looking toward the living room. Male voices echo down the hall, originating from the kitchen. It's the deep kind of laughter of two men who know each other well. It rumbles through the house, warming it from the inside out.

I tiptoe to the bathroom, relieve myself, and then finger-scrub the fuzz away from my teeth. I check myself in the mirror, paying special attention to my ears, nose, and even my cheeks. Despite my ordeal, I made it through the blizzard without any damage.

But I've stalled long enough.

Drake's voice bounces off the walls, deep and resonating; it tunnels beneath my skin and slams into my gut, twisting and knotting into a tangled mess. My belly flutters and my breaths turn shallow. Rapid. Nervous to see him again.

When I enter the kitchen, both men turn at the same time. Drake holds a spatula and stands in front of the cast-iron stove. A skillet sizzles and pops as bacon crisps in its grease. Bert stands at the counter, a white and blue striped ceramic bowl cradled in the crook of his arm. He beats at the contents with a wire whisk.

"Good morning, sunshine." Bert's bright smile welcomes me yet again, making me feel at home. "Sleep well?"

"I did, thank you."

Drake's gaze rakes over my body, taking in every inch and lingers longer than is polite. Unlike Bert's bright and cheery welcome, Drake's attention is something else entirely.

The dark, sweltering heat simmering in his eyes speeds my heart and deepens my breaths. The loose-fitting faded pair of jeans fails to conceal his physique composed of tight cords and hard ridges of defined muscle.

His poor t-shirt stretches across broad shoulders, and I have no doubt it hides a rippling terrace of muscle underneath. The man exudes power. His threatening scowl does nothing to soften those hard edges. Too much pain laces that scowl, and I can't help but want to ease some of the agony, which seems to be such an integral part of his makeup.

He's well-built without being overly muscular, unlike the gym die-hards who flood the local gyms back in Redlands. I signed up a time or two, thinking the addition of a bit of gym time would help me lose the extra five pounds Scott always went on and on about. After my first visit, with powerlifters and bulky men amped up on protein powder and questionably legal substances, I never returned.

Drake's muscular build appears to be the result of honest to goodness labor, working the land.

My gaze dips, following the narrowing of his waist to the V-cut indentations I know are hidden under the fabric. His pants outline just enough of a bulge to fire up my pulse again. No man has a right to look that good.

His raven-black hair, long on the top and short on the sides, flops over his eyes in a disheveled mess. As I stare, he rakes his fingers through the messy strands, pushing the hair out of his eyes. It immediately falls back, as rebellious and untamed as I imagine he must be.

I try to determine his age. He's older than me, but how much older? From the lack of wrinkles on his face, I guess a year or two at most. Maybe three or five. But his piercing gaze wears authority with ease. It makes me wonder if he's prior military.

Maybe the scar is the result of an injury obtained while on active duty? That could explain the maturity I sense. There's nothing left of the youth he once was. Some tragedy stripped that innocence.

Everything about Drake screams, "stay away." There's a wildness to his features that can't be denied. There's also pain, terrible agony etched in the hardness of his features.

I'm staring, but I can't look away. He regards me silently, allowing my intrusive gaze to get its fill, and he doesn't flinch beneath my scrutiny. At least, not until I wonder about that scar.

Standing feet braced, shoulder-width apart, he's intimidating, but the moment my focus shifts to the scar, he turns back to the stove.

Bert catches every nuance. His inquisitive gaze flickers between us, bouncing back and forth until our entirely silent exchange concludes with Drake giving me his back.

Which doesn't help my predicament at all.

Now I've got nothing better to look at than the way Drake's tight ass fills out those jeans. Everything about this mysterious man conjures the most decadent and indecent thoughts. There's a ruthlessness about him, a carnal need vibrating in the tenseness of his tall, muscular form.

It's volatile.

He's dangerous, but damn, if that doesn't make me want to take a walk on the wild side. Which screams trouble with a capital T.

Fortunately for me, I'm not the kind of girl who makes the first move. I'm far too timid for that. Now, my imagination, on the other hand, already has our bodies twisting and tangling, skin sliding against skin, and other parts of our bodies locked in an intimate embrace.

"How do you like your eggs, city girl?" Drake's velvety baritone sends shivers of sensation racing along my skin.

My veins hum with a flickering heat, but I try to sound nonchalant as if his presence doesn't do strange things to my body. "Over medium, please." My gut simmers with the low grunt he returns.

"Breakfast will be done shortly," he says. "Why don't you relax in the living room? We'll call you."

"Is there something I can help with?"

Bert keeps whipping the batter, attention shifting between me and Drake, while the focus of my attention slowly turns back around.

"We've got this, city girl. I'll call you when it's time." Drake dismisses me with callous disregard, leaving me unsure what I should do with myself.

Having two men labor over my breakfast is a decadence I'm not accustomed to

but will gladly enjoy. Even if I feel a little guilty snuggling into the warm leather of Bert's couch instead of setting the table or helping in some other way.

A few minutes later, Bert calls me in. The round kitchen table is set, and I join them for the best eggs, bacon, and pancakes I've ever had.

"Thank you, that was delicious." My voice cracks as I stand and try to clear the dishes.

"I've got KP duty." Bert rises, taking the dishes out of my hands. "Why don't you help Drake with the chores outside while I clean up in here? Henry won't be around for another hour, and I'm sure Drake will appreciate your help." He walks over to a closet and pulls out a coat. "Here, you can borrow this. It was Bethany's."

With the exception of the kitchen, there's a definite lack of feminine presence in the home, but he still keeps some of her things. How long ago did she die? It's a shame because Bert looks like the kind of man who is desperately in love with his wife. I bet he misses her terribly, but I don't voice my thoughts. He reminds me a little of my uncle, who lost my aunt several years ago. There's a lingering sadness, which never fully goes away.

"Thank you." I take the coat from Bert.

Drake unfolds his long, lean frame from the chair, and my eyes cut to the flex of his biceps. I touch my fingers to my neck where my pulse races beneath the pad of my finger. Reluctantly, I drag my attention from Drake's impressive form as he shrugs into his jacket and turns back around. He snatches the coat from my hands, shakes it out, and holds it for me.

He crowds my personal space while I shove first one arm and then the other inside the borrowed coat. When I pull at the bottom to zip it up, Drake places his hands on my shoulders and unceremoniously spins me around. His towering frame puts me eye level with his chest. I'm used to Scott's much shorter stature and being eye-to-eye. With Drake, all I see is the expanse of his chest.

While he zips me into the coat, no part of him actually touches me. It's as if he tries not to touch me, but if he doesn't want to touch me, why is he in my space?

My entire body reacts to the nearness of him. His dark, masculine scent floods my nostrils as I fill my lungs. His words about zip it, don't sniff it pass through my thoughts, and I can't help my bite down on my lower lip to keep from giggling like a lunatic.

He pulls the zipper all the way up my chest, snugging it below my chin. Bending closer, he inspects his handiwork, then cocks his head to the side.

"You ready to see the llamas?"