Savage Collision: A Hawke Family Novel (The Hawke Family Book 1) by Gwyn McNamee Page A

half of this floor, so he made some calls and made sure I got this place quickly so work could start making it completely accessible. I spent a few months at my mom’s before I moved in here.”
    She visibly relaxes when I fail to react to her comment and leans her hip against the counter that is way too low for her. I motion to her four-inch fuck-me pumps and smile at her. “You know, you would probably be a lot more comfortable in here if you took those things off.”
    She glances down at them and raises her eyes to me, embarrassment on her face. “Sorry, I have freakishly long legs as it is, but with these on, I am more like a giraffe. I should really stay away from heels.” Reaching down, she slides them off and sets them down near the doorway before turning back to me.
    “I couldn’t disagree more. You look hot as hell with those on. They make your mile-long legs look even longer; I can barely take my eyes off them.”
    Blushing, she eyes me curiously. “How tall are you, anyway?”
    I’m busy filling a large pot with water at the sink, but I glance over my shoulder and shrug. “Six-threeish.”
    At least I used to be.
    “No fucking way! Well, I guess your dad was a pretty big guy.”
    “Yeah, he was almost six-five and weighed nearly two-eighty when he was fighting.” My dad was a beast. He dominated his weight class in two different boxing leagues and probably would have kept going if the aneurysm hadn’t killed him. It came out of nowhere. One minute, he was pummeling his opponent in the ring, and the next, he just stopped and dropped to the mat. He never got up again.
    “What can I help with?” she asks as she watches me move around the kitchen, getting the things I need.
    “In the bottom drawer of the fridge is stuff for a salad. You want to pull it out and make it?”
    “Of course.” With an adorable little skip, she moves to the fridge and bends down to slide out the crisper drawer, her already-short dress riding up until I almost glimpse the sweet dip of her ass cheeks.
    Damn! This woman has a body that won’t fucking quit. Down, boy!
    I return my attention to the sauce that has been simmering on the stove for several hours and give it a stir. She sets something down behind me on the counter and then, in my peripheral vision, I see her grab a knife from the butcher block. Anticipating her next question, I turn around and reach into one of the cabinets below the island, pulling out a cutting board and setting it on the counter in front of her.
    She grins at me, and I see some of the tension and unease leave her body. My heart thuds irregularly in my chest, and I have to turn back to the stove and unnecessarily stir the sauce again so she doesn’t see how much she affects me.
    “What are you making?” she asks as she begins chopping the salad ingredients.
    “Chicken parm. I hope you like it.”
    “Oh, I love chicken parm. It’s one of my go-to orders whenever I go out for Italian.”
    “Well, I hope mine stands up.” I pull the glass baking dish that contains the already breaded and pan-fried chicken breasts from the fridge and set it on the counter next to the stove. I can feel her eyes on me, following me as I move around the kitchen. She isn’t saying much, and that worries me.
    What’s she thinking? Does she want to leave and is just too polite to tell me? Should I push her into talking to me about what she’s feeling about all this?
    I top the chicken with sauce and cheese and slide it into the oven before turning back to see how Danika is doing on the salad.
    “How’s it coming?”
    She drops sliced tomatoes into the large wooden bowl and smiles at me. “Done.”
    “Good, let’s open a bottle of wine while we wait for it to finish cooking.”
    “Okay.”
    By the time the food is ready and we’re at the table, we’ve almost finished a bottle. I’m not a big drinker. I enjoy a whiskey, or beer, or glass of wine, but tonight, just like at Angelo’s, drinking seems to ease