On the Way Home by Skye Warren Page B

how little I deserved this kind of life. No wonder it had all gone to hell.
    I got ready quickly, throwing on a pale blue polka-dot sundress because it was easy. My hair went up into a quick bun, because the last thing I wanted to do was give Dmitri the impression I had primped for him. My task today would be awful, and I’d rather get it over with.
    The sizzle and scent of bacon drew me downstairs.
    Clint stood in the kitchen wearing worn-looking jeans that hugged his ass, a loose army-green T-shirt, and bare feet. Two white straps wrapped around his waist and tied at the back.
    I recognized my apron and let out a startled laugh. “Hey, Martha Stewart.”
    He turned back, grinning, pretending to be offended. Then he saw me, and his smile faded. He stayed like that, spatula in hand, eyes on my face, lips pressed together. Shit. My heart stalled in my chest. I heard it from beneath the floorboards instead, the telltale heart, and I wanted to blurt out all my sins.
    He saved me from doing so, by saying, “You look really good.”
    My hand went to my falling-down hair in a self-conscious movement. “I’m a mess and you know it.”
    He shook his head, wearing a half grin that seemed more bemused than anything. As if I were the one missing something. His gaze was considering. “Every time I look at you, I see a new side of you.” His face screwed into a deprecating expression, as if he knew exactly how cheesy his words were—but couldn’t help himself anyway. “Every time, I think you can’t look any prettier than that, but then you do.”
    I blushed like a maniac, my cheeks burning so hot I had to look away. This was flirting, the way I tried to hide my smile and failed. These were practiced movements I had learned a long time ago. I had used them on countless customers and—to my eternal shame—on Dmitri, once upon a time. But they had never come out naturally. I’d never understood why a girl would twirl her hair on her finger or bite her lip, until now. It felt as natural as breathing to flirt this way, to scoot closer while huddling in on myself.
    “You hungry?” he asked in a low voice, and I knew he wasn’t talking about food. The tension pulsed in the room, igniting my desire and alerting me to his. Normally that would be a scary situation. Something to worry about or something that would pay my bills.
    Now I wanted to push him up against the counter so he had nowhere to go. I wanted to yank down those jeans and pull up his shirt—but I’d leave the apron on. I liked things twisted. I wanted a man as strong and capable and fearless as him, but I wanted him at my feet.
    “I can’t stay,” I said with genuine regret. “I have some errands to run this morning.”
    “Oh.” He glanced back at the pan of bacon. Scrambled eggs were already split onto two dishes. “You sure I can’t tempt you?”
    I stuck out my tongue. “You always do.”
    God, who was this girl? It was like I’d reverted to a sixteen-year-old girl, making faces at guys in the hallway between classes. At least, that was how I guessed it would be. I’d never been to high school, only taken GED courses by mail. I had never been sixteen either—not really. I’d gone from little girl to jaded woman in the blink of an eye.
    Clint loaded the bacon and toast onto the plates and brought them to the table. “Just a few minutes,” he said. He knew exactly the effect he had on me, the bastard. “You can tell me your plan for the day.”
    Just like that, all the fun flirtiness evaporated. I did sit down at the table, because walking away from this meal he’d made would be downright criminal. But I couldn’t help feeling like this was my last meal. It made the eggs taste rubbery and the bacon like charcoal.
    He took a bite but watched me curiously. “The food okay?”
    “It’s great,” I lied.
    The sound he made was noncommittal. “Are you okay?”
    “Of course.” I forced a smile. “Just a little tired, I guess.”
    “Yeah, I