Caped and Dangerous - Isabel Jordan Page 0,23

all night, and she’d been passed out, snoring and probably drooling, the whole time.

If her vagina could talk, she imagined it would be cussing her out right about now.

But, at this moment, it was her bladder that was cussing her out. So, she got up, stumbled to the bathroom, and took care of business.

While she was washing her hands, she made the mistake of glancing up at herself in the mirror. She recoiled.

Sweet merciful crap!

Half of her face was covered in pillow creases, the other in bruises. Her day-old makeup was smeared and melting off, making her look like Harley Quinn on a really, really bad day.

Then there was her hair.

You could lose a brush—or a hand—in the nest of tangled curls that stood up in all directions all over her head. It was…impressive. Most people would need to be electrocuted to achieve this particular style, she imagined.

It took about ten minutes to scrub off her makeup and wrestle her hair into a bun. When she was done, she was worn out again and ready to go back to bed, but her empty, gurgling stomach wouldn’t hear of it, so she wandered into her kitchen. The sight that greeted her stopped her dead in her tracks.

Killian Morgan, in all his glory, was…cooking.

He glanced up from whatever he was whisking in a large mixing bowl (was that bowl hers? She didn’t recall ever owning mixing bowls and cooking utensils), and when his eyes met hers, he smiled.

“You look a million times better this morning,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

Shit, if she looked a million times better right now, how bad had she looked last night? It boggled the mind. “Um…fine. I guess.”

He certainly didn’t look like a man who hadn’t slept all night. His eyes were bright, he was wearing clean clothes (seriously, the way he looked in dark-washed jeans and a gray Henley should be illegal), and while his hair was still messy (it was always messy), it was obviously clean and had been combed at least once.

Seriously, where did the man get off looking that good at this time of day on zero sleep? It was just rude, frankly.

Killian set the bowl down and walked over to her, tipping her chin up gently as he examined her bruised cheek. “You heal amazingly fast,” he murmured. “This will be completely better by the end of the week, I’d say.”

Then he grinned at her and added, “And I love the no makeup look. Let’s me see all these glorious freckles.”

She was still trying to recover from the feel of his warm, strong hands on her face when he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to the tip of her nose. Then he went back to his spot by the window to stir…whatever he was stirring.

“Um…what are you doing?” she asked, cringing at how confused and idiotic she sounded. But he was seriously messing with her brain, standing there, in her kitchen, looking all tall and hot and…stirring stuff. He had a huge unfair advantage this morning.

“Making you breakfast,” he answered as if she hadn’t just asked the dumbest question in the world. “I hope you like omelets, because that’s literally all I can cook.”

Greer rubbed her aching forehead. She watched as he whisked the eggs and tossed what looked like cubed ham, diced green peppers and onions, and cheese into the bowl. “Did I have all that in my refrigerator?”

He snorted. “You had an expired bottle of ketchup—do you even realize how long the shelf life on a bottle of ketchup is? I had no idea they could actually expire—and yesterday’s leftovers from El Jeffe’s in your refrigerator, but I wanted you to be able to have those for lunch. So, I had some groceries delivered, and now I’m making omelets. I also got some fresh- squeezed orange juice, some fruit, and a few fresh croissants. And there’s coffee, of course.”

This was all very confusing. He’d stayed with her all night, cared for her, carried her to bed, stocked her fridge, and now he was making her breakfast. She’d been married and in all that time, she was pretty sure her husband hadn’t done as much for her as Killian had done in the past 24 hours.

How sad was that?

When her eyes filled with tears, he stopped whisking. “What’s wrong?” he asked, sounding panicked. “Are you hurting? The pills the doctor gave you are on the entryway table. Do you need them?”

She held up her hand to stop him