Spitfire Suckerpunch (House of Pain Book 2) (26 page)

And it wasn't just about the soup, although he couldn't wait to taste it.

Her mere presence made him feel a million times better. His apartment was no longer cool and quiet; it was warm and smelled good and it was filled with the sound of her cooking and humming lightly to herself as she moved around his kitchen like she owned it. Mostly, he liked watching her. He liked how she had to stand on her tip-toes reach something on a top shelf. He liked how she opened the kitchen drawers like she knew exactly where to find everything. She rarely asked him where things were anymore, he realized.

Char hopped up on the couch and climbed up on his stomach. He pet the cat behind the ears absentmindedly as he let his mind wander back to the fantasy he'd had a million times about watching her cook in the nude. It was completely impractical and she would probably laugh in his face if she ever found out about it, but he still thought about it. He still thought about pushing her down and fucking her hard on the floor in the middle of the kitchen, until they were both bruised and sore. He had fantasies about fucking her in every room of the apartment, actually. He'd already gotten about halfway there. He felt like shit and he was loopy for the medicine she'd force-fed him, but he was still tempted to get up and try to seduce her. Shay Spears had that effect on him.

“What are you doing?” she called out, pulling him out of his fantasy. She was looking at him as she stirred the big soup pot, her eyebrows knitted in a cute way. The way she was acting one would think he was knocking on heaven's door, instead of merely suffering from a chest cold.

“Nothing,” he responded and added a little cough at the end to garner some sympathy. His ploy worked because she pulled the spoon out of the pot and set it on the stove top before rushing over and pressing the back of her hand to his forehead.

“Isn't that medicine making you feel better?” she asked and she looked so cute when she was concerned for his welfare that he shrugged, wanting more of her attention. She lifted Char off of his chest and placed the cat on the floor. “Sorry, cat,” she murmured. “You're in the way.” Char scurried into the dark bedroom, pausing in the doorway to give Shay a slightly evil-looking glare before disappearing inside. Shay sat beside him on the edge of the couch, balancing her hip against him and he pushed over onto his side to give her more room. She stared down at him and ran her hand through his hair, frowning a bit. “You feel a little hot,” she said. “You still have a fever.”

“I don't feel that bad,” he said, closing his eyes drooping closed as she continued to stroke his hair.

“Well, you sound terrible,” she replied, her hand wandering back down to his face and cupping his cheek. He hadn't shaved that morning, and his face was rough. He liked the way her touch felt against his stubble. “But don't worry, my magical soup will make you feel instantly better.”

“Why? Is there some kind of drug in there?”

“No!” She pinched his cheek lightly in punishment and he smiled. “No drugs, you jerk.”

“Then what's so magical about it?”

“I made it from scratch with my bare hands,” she whispered,  running the pad of  her thumb across his lips and he involuntarily tilted his head toward her touch. “That's what's magical about it.”

“You didn't have to,” he said, opening his eyes. He raised his hand and brushed it against her back, her sweater feeling soft as a cloud.

“I know.” She cocked her head. “You're so lucky to have a girl who will drop everything to take care of you. I'm such a saint, it's ridiculous.” Her words were light, as was her touch on his face, but something about her words struck a chord in him. She was joking, but she wasn't saying something that wasn't blatantly obvious. He
was
lucky to have her. Well, he didn't really have her have her, but she was there, taking care of him. That was all that mattered – at least that's what he tried to tell himself.

“You're no saint,” he said, smiling as he thought about all the devilish things she'd done to him and all the sinful ways he wanted to repay her.

“True,” she said with a sigh, pushing herself to standing. “I'm just a girl.” He grabbed her hand, not wanting her to leave him yet. He pulled her down again and she plopped beside him with a light gasp.

“The soup is gonna burn!” she said, swatting at him with her free hand. At that moment, he didn't give a fuck about the soup, no matter how good it smelled. All he cared about was the girl who was making it for him. Ignoring her protests, he dropped his head back against the arm of the couch and stared up at her. She was such a beautiful girl, he decided. There was something about the arrangement of her eyes and her mouth and her nose that was so aesthetically pleasing to him. Shit, he even loved her ears. He liked her heart-shaped face and her slightly pointy chin. He liked her slight widow's peak and the way she parted her hair in the middle. He liked that today, she was wearing a darker shade of lipstick. He wanted to kiss her, but he knew he was contagious and he didn't want to get her sick. So instead, he brought her hand to his mouth and pressed her knuckles to his lips.

“I am lucky,” he said, the words flowing naturally because he believed them. “To have you.” The room went silent then, and for a minute, it feel like all the air had been sucked out. Suddenly, everything felt too serious. He hadn't meant for that to happen, but somehow, it had. She blinked, like she was trying to figure out what he meant. He barely knew what he meant, so he didn't say anything else. He couldn't think of the best words for what he was trying to say, he he didn't bother. He just let his words hang in the silence.

“So let me take care of you,” she said, flexing the fingers he still had captured in his grasp. He nodded and released her hand and she stood up. Glancing over her shoulder at him like she was still trying to figure him out, she headed back to the kitchen. He watched her fuss around with the soup from his vantage point on the couch, trying to figure out exactly what he wanted from Shay. He didn't know why it was so hard to know, but then again, he wasn't really thinking with just his logical brain. No, his whole body was involved, from the tips of his hair to the tip of his dick. And his body wasn't thinking very rational. The only thing he knew for sure was that every inch of him, every cell, wanted her. Of that much, he was certain.

***

After fixing Tate two bowls of soup (which he devoured like a man dying of hunger) and a mug of tea (with exactly one and a half spoonfuls of honey), Shay finally felt like her caregiver duties were satisfied. After tidying up the kitchen and putting the leftover soup in the fridge, she felt ready to collapse. After arranging herself on the couch with Tate laying in-between her legs with his head in her stomach, she finally let herself relax for the first time since she'd gotten to Tate's apartment. She'd been going full speed and she wasn't even sure why. Tate wasn't her boyfriend. He was just a guy, a guy she was supposed to hate but was fucking instead. He was being sweet and also needy and had flipped her shit when he'd kissed her hand earlier and said some confusing things. But she didn't want to think too much about it.

But it sure seemed like he liked her.

More than liked her.

“Can I tell you something off the record?” she asked, knowing that she should probably shut her mouth, but not being able to. He lifted his head to look at her.

“Is it illegal?” He was joking but Shay didn't have the heart to laugh. For another second, she debated on telling him at all. It was her own private business that she hadn't discussed with anyone, other than her aunt. But instead of doing the smart thing, she blazed right ahead and did the stupid thing, because she wanted to talk to Tate about it more than anyone else in the world.

“No, it's not illegal. I mean, I don’t know. Maybe,” she replied, knowing full well it was completely illegal. After a long pause, he nodded and laid his head back down on her stomach. She  “When I got out of prison, I got an envelope of cash-”

“From your father,” he interrupted.

“It’s not important where it came from,” she added. He sniffed but didn’t reply. “Anyway, so I got some cash—”

“How much?” he asked, interrupting again.

“A few thousand.”

“How much?” he repeated.

“Damn you’re pushy.”

“What’s the point of telling me the story if you’re going to leave all the important parts out?” he asked, lifting his head again.

“I haven’t gotten to the important part yet!” she exclaimed, throwing up her hands. He considered that. Then he shrugged and put his head back down. She dropped her hand to his head, gently. She ran her hand over his scalp, buying time as she debated whether she should tell him or not. “Twenty grand,” she said finally. He let out a low whistle. “Twenty grand for six years. It’s bullshit, right?” she said keeping her voice light despite the hollow feeling in her chest. “But I’ve been trying to figure out what to do with it. Maybe take a vacation or get an apartment of my own. Or maybe culinary school.” She dropped off, letting the last one hang in the air.

“So basically you want to know if you should go to culinary school with illegally obtained hush money?” he asked, matter-of-factly, his words muffled in her stomach. She couldn’t help it—a giggle escaped from her lips at the blunt way he’d summed up her situation.

“Pretty much,” she said, running her thumbnail along the shell of his ear. After a long moment, he took a deep breath and pushed himself back up on his elbows to look at her.

“I think you should do it,” he said. She felt a little spark of warmth in her chest at the look on his face. He seemed sincere. Non-judgmental. She wondered how much it pained him to try to be objective. “If it would make you happy.”

“I mean, I think it would make me happy. I think I would be good at it,” she said, running her hand over his shoulder and picking at imaginary lint on his T-shirt.

“Don't pretend to be modest,” he said. “You're good at it and you know it.”

“I know,” she said, shrugging like it was nothing.

“You have the money so do it,” he nodded, like the decision was made. “Despite where the money came from.”

“Consider it like an inheritance or a gift,” she said, smiling a bit at how much lighter she felt all of a sudden. She'd been forming the plan for awhile. Bits and pieces here and there, but it was a good enough starting off point. Culinary school first. Then working as a pastry chef. Maybe opening her own bakery. Maybe working for a fancy restaurant. The possibilities suddenly seemed endless.

“But you didn't pay taxes on it,” he said, disrupting her thoughts. “If it was an inheritance, you'd have to pay taxes on it.”

“Oh hush!” She slapped at his shoulder and he clicked his tongue. “Don't ruin my happy moment.” He narrowed his eyes at her and she could see the gears working in his mind. He just couldn't let the whole 'legal grey area' go, and it was almost cute, in a way. He always saw things in black and white, so it was hard for him to see the middle ground. Maybe that was part of what she liked about him, strangely. With him, there was no guessing where he stood on issues. There was no worry that he would change his position on the drop of a dime. He was a stick-in-the-mud, but when it came to her, for some reason, he was usually able to find some wiggle room in his stalwart brain.“Forget about the money,” she said, dragging her hands through his hair.

“Okay,” he said, closing his eyes again and settling against her. She let the silence envelope them again for awhile, her mind on school. She hadn't needed Tate's validation that her idea was a good one.

“My birthday's next week,” she said, feeling like she hadn't confided in someone so much in years. It felt weird to talk about herself, even with Tate who knew her better than ninety-nine percent of the rest of the people on the planet. She felt his arms tighten around her, but he didn't move to look at her. “I'll be twenty-five.”

“I know,” he mumbled into the fabric of her sweater, not bothering to look up at her.

“What? How did you know?”

“I told you I read your police report,” he replied. “Numerous times.”

“
Numerous
times? How many times?”

“Enough,” he said, so seriously that she couldn't help but smile. A glimmer of devilish amusement in his eye was the only sign that he was joking, but she still caught it. Then the amusement drained from his face and he hoisted himself up, grimacing as he went.

“What's the matter?” she asked, leaning forward, a pang of worry in her chest. “You feel sick?” He shook his head and stood slowly, like he was sore. “Baby, don't move. If you need something I'll get it,” she called after him as he shuffled to the kitchen. She swung her legs over and put her feet on the floor, ready to follow him when she saw him open a drawer in the kitchen and rifle through the contents. She furrowed her brow, watching him and wondering what he was doing. Then he slammed the drawer and returned to the living room with something in his hand. He collapsed on the couch again, the frame of the big leather behemoth shuddering under his weight.

“Hold out your hand,” he said. Then he flicked his green eyes up to meet hers. “Please.” The word sent a shiver of something electric up her spine and she obeyed. He knew what that word did to her. He knew she couldn't refuse him when he said please. Then he dropped something cold and metallic into her palm. She stared down at the item, blinking as she processed what it was and what it meant.