Feeling somewhat befuddled, I stood in the doorway of the kitchen the next morning and just stared at my fake husband. Not once in the entire time I’d lived here had I come downstairs to find him cooking breakfast for us. There were occasions when we’d sort of “crossed paths” in the kitchen and so we’d eaten toast or cereal or Danish pastries at the same time. But neither of us had ever prepared food for the other in the morning. Until now.
I wasn’t complaining. It smelled so good, and I was famished. But, yeah, it made me a little suspicious. Perhaps that just meant I was cynical. I supposed I’d soon find out.
As if sensing me, Dane glanced over his shoulder. “Morning.”
“Morning.”
He tipped his chin at the island. “Sit,” he invited and then went back to plating the food.
I crossed to the island and slid onto a stool. There was a mug of steaming coffee waiting for me, along with cutlery. How solicitous. And very un-Dane-like.
He set two plates down on the island that were topped with eggs, bacon, sausages, toast, and breakfast potatoes. My brows lifted. He’d gone all out.
“Thank you,” I said, picking up my cutlery.
He sat on the stool opposite me. “Sleep well?”
“I did, thanks. You?”
He shrugged and dug into his food.
I did the same and, damn, it was good. One thing I’d learned about Dane was that he knew his way around the kitchen. He was competent at so many things; it made me feel a little inadequate. I’d have been able to better enjoy the meal if it weren’t for the nagging feeling in my gut that this apparent good deed wouldn’t be “free.”
Halfway through my meal, I asked, “Okay, what is it that you want from me? I’d rather just know now.”
He lifted his mug. “I must have an ulterior motive if I cooked us breakfast?”
“You generally don’t do things out of the goodness of your heart,” I pointed out. “Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate that you cooked, no matter why you did it. I’d just prefer to know now what it is that you’re after.”
“All I want is for you to finish your breakfast.” He took a sip of his coffee and then went back to his meal.
Still uneasy, I nonetheless turned my attention back to my food. No matter what the dude said, I was quite sure this wasn’t merely a kind or courteous gesture. Maybe he’d done this to soften me up. It was possible he worried I might still be too upset to stay; that he thought trying his hand at being “nice” would make me less likely to walk. Dane’s motivations sometimes only made sense to him.
Feeling his eyes on me, I looked up to see him studying me over the rim of his mug. I frowned and swallowed the last of my eggs. “What?”
“You should invite your family to come here for dinner one night.”
He … he wanted people to come to his house? This was new. “Why?”
“Because you miss them.” He put down his mug. “You went from visiting them often to barely seeing them. Why?”
“They kept asking if something was ‘wrong at home’ because I visited them so frequently; they thought you and me might be having problems, especially since you didn’t go with me to see them.”
His brow furrowed. “I was with you when you last saw your foster parents, and the last two occasions you visited Simon.”
“Yes, and they watched us like hawks the whole time, looking for clues that our marriage might be on the rocks already.”
“That’s all the more reason to invite them here. They need to see that everything is fine.”
But things didn’t feel fine. Not when I was now aware of just how easily this man could hurt me. The crush had allowed for a degree of emotional separation. I didn’t have that anymore; he’d penetrated my defenses, and the strong sense of possessiveness I felt shook me up.
In general, I struggled to lower my guard around people. I was too wary, too distrustful. It didn’t matter how nice a guy was, I always seemed to be waiting for him to mess up. I hated that about myself; hated that I expected people to hurt me. It wasn’t fair to them.
Dane wasn’t sweet or cuddly or kind, and I suspected that that was why he’d been able to slip around my defenses. I hadn’t expected him to be a real