that.”
“Not anyone.”
That was definitely her experience.
“You’re a good guy and now I feel like an even bigger bitch I was so ugly to you last night,” she whispered.
“We’re beyond that,” he reminded her.
“Okay,” she said unconvincingly.
“Try to get some sleep,” he urged.
“Okay,” she repeated.
“If you can’t, my room’s right over there.” He pointed to the door in the unit opposite hers, across the kitchen. “Knock, honey. I’ll get up, we’ll chat, watch some late-night movies, whatever.”
“Okay,” she said again, though he knew she wouldn’t disturb him just like he knew she probably wouldn’t get any sleep. “Thanks again, Danny.”
“Don’t mention it, Evie. Rest well.”
“You too.”
Slowly, she slid out of the door, closing it behind her.
Mag stood staring at it, the feelings boiling inside him again.
He’d developed coping mechanisms to handle his temper.
Talking to Mo, Auggie, Boone, Axl, some of them or all of them.
Working out.
Finding someone to fuck.
And last recourse, getting drunk, though sometimes that could bite him in the ass.
He could call any of his friends and they’d talk or come over and listen.
Mag didn’t do that.
It might tweak Evie.
Not to mention, at this juncture, with her life a mess, she didn’t need to learn he was all kinds of fucked up.
So instead, he turned off the kitchen light, walked to his room and went to bed.
Mag woke because he smelled bacon.
He stared at his pillow, then he threw back the covers, angled out of bed, walked to his door and pulled it open.
Yeah.
Fuck him.
That was what he’d hoped to see.
Evie, in his tee, in his kitchen, cooking breakfast.
If she didn’t want him to see her legs, she’d be in her clothes.
She wanted him to see her legs, her in his tee, and all that communicated.
Thank Christ, today was starting a helluva lot better than yesterday.
She was standing at the stove.
She turned at the sound of his door opening, her mouth moving like she was about to say something, but when she clapped eyes on him, she went completely still, her gaze glued to his chest.
Mag slept in loose shorts.
He worked at his body because he liked doing it.
He did it because it helped him keep his emotions in check.
And he did it because it was a requirement of his job.
But right then, he was fucking glad he did.
“Mornin’, Evie,” he said, moving out of his room.
She blinked rapidly, her eyes shifting down to his abs, lower, then skimming quickly up.
He never would have imagined he’d wake up the morning after last night (and the one before) and walk out to his kitchen grinning.
But that was what he did.
He buried the grin, leaned a hip against the counter of the island, crossed his arms on his chest, which made her drop her eyes to it again before they speeded back up to his face, and he caught his lip twitch before he asked, “You manage to get any sleep?”
“A couple of hours,” she replied.
“Good,” he muttered.
“I, uh…thought I’d start my thank-you process by making you breakfast,” she told him.
He quirked his brows. “Your thank-you process?”
“It has multiple layers. Or it will. I haven’t decided what those are going to be yet. But,” she indicated the frying pan with her fork, “it starts with breakfast.”
He smiled at her. “Baby, you don’t have anything to thank me for.”
At least, not yet.
“On that, we disagree,” she mumbled, turning back to the pan. “It’s good you’re up, how do you like your eggs?”
“However you make them.”
She looked at him again. “What’s your favorite way?”
“Eggs are eggs, babe. Whatever way you wanna make ’em, I’ll like.”
She was going to say something, but toast popped up and that took her attention.
So he said, “Gonna go brush my teeth. Then I’ll be back, and I’ll help you finish breakfast.”
Her attention returned to him, but he pivoted, walked to his room and through it to the bathroom. He used it, washed his hands, did the brush thing, the floss thing, splashed water on his face and pulled his wet fingers through his hair.
And he absolutely did not tug on a tee on his way back to the kitchen.
She had plates down, a stack of toast started, bacon resting on a paper towel by the stove and was scrambling some eggs when he returned.
“Just sit down, Mag, and let me serve you. If you help, it won’t be a thank-you,” she ordered, not glancing his way.
But…
Mag?
She had not once called him Mag, unless it was right after he told her to do that, but then she went right