Selling Scarlett

I’m thinking of going left, toward the study, but then I catch a whiff of something delicious. It’s pretty unlikely that Hunter’s wearing an apron, but I’m so hungry, I don’t care who’s cooking. I come down off the bottom stair and follow my nose, toward the right, past a grand dining room with a fireplace and a long table topped with what looks like an ivory sculpture of a sailboat. I’m walking past that room, toward another room that looks like a formal living area, when I see, through a half-cracked doorway in the dining room, a posh black and white kitchen. Score!

I’m stepping past the table when Hunter’s beautiful body fills the doorway. I’m shocked to see his lips spread in a cat-like grin as he looks me over from head to boot.

"Libby DeVille, right here in my house." He tilts his blond head at the room behind him. "I’ve got breakfast."

As he turns back into the kitchen, I realize he’s holding a wooden spoon. Holy belly bats, that’s sexy. Hunter in house clothes, cooking breakfast. Dark jeans hang off his hips, with a worn-out spot over the left pocket. A scruffy green button-up shirt is rolled up to his elbows. Rugged boots with real live mud clomp on the tile floor as he heads for the stove.

As I step into the kitchen, which smells like butter and sugar and bacon, he turns around from the stove and flashes me a cautious smile.

"How are ya?"

I surprise myself by sliding a look up and down his delectable body. I just can’t resist. I notice that despite his sunnier attitude, his eyes are still tired and, underneath a day’s worth of stubble, his normally tanned face looks slightly pale.

"How are you?" I ask, praying he’ll mistake the ogle I just gave him for friendly concern.

"Up and kicking," he says, turning back to what he’s doing so I get a view of his broad back and ass. The double oven and industrial-sized sink face a massive window overlooking rolling acres of grazing cattle. Framing them on either side are rows of bar space, complete with black stools, place mats, and silverware.

I take a seat at the bar nearest me, choosing the spot closest to the oven, so Hunter is standing right in front of me. I prop my elbow on the counter—black granite with coppery swirls—and try to pretend that this is normal for us. Me and Hunter, regular breakfast buddies.

He’s pushing some bacon around on a skillet, not looking my way, when I begin to wonder if this will be a repeat of last night. I’m not sure if I can stand the awkwardness again. Then he lifts his head and pins me with a warm gaze I can feel between my legs.

"You cook?" he asks, and I notice for the first time that there are two big platters on the bar on Hunter’s other side, already piled high with biscuits and cinnamon rolls. Wowzers.

“I don’t,” I say, hanging my head. “Suri, my roommate, cooks like a champ, so I’m kind of spoiled. I’m surprised you do,” I add. “I would have thought you had somebody.”

“All honesty?” He arches a brow. “I gave my chef the day off.” He picks up a gooey-looking cinnamon roll and hands it to me. Then he gives a slight shake of his head and grabs a plate from one of the cabinets. “Try that,” he says, pushing the plate my way, “and tell me you’re still skeptical.”

I do, and “oh my God.” I shut my eyes, and when I open them, he’s grinning.

“That’s just sinful.”

“Our cook in New Orleans taught me to make these things from scratch,” he tells me, biting into one. His eyes widen, like he’s realized he can’t speak around the cinnamon roll, so he quickly tries to chew, which makes me laugh.

Our gazes hold like magnets as we both finish our rolls, and then Hunter turns back to the oven, where the bacon is popping and crackling.

His eyes flick over me as he works on the pan. "I have to say, I miss the getup from last night."

I’m surprised charmed. I smile at him. "Do you now?"

"I do."

He quickly moves the bacon from the skillet to another plate, then pushes it toward me. I try not to watch his tight ass as he turns and grabs a basket of eggs out of the ‘fridge. I can’t help admiring his shoulders as he cracks them into a giant bowl. He seems so…different in his own space. Not at all like the Hunter from my sex fantasies, or the anguished man from the last few nights.

I wish there was some way to ask about last night in particular, but I can’t think of one.

"How do you like your scrambled eggs?" he asks over his shoulder.

"Hard, I guess," I say, and yeah, I blush a second after I said it.

He doesn’t notice though, and I munch my bacon. He’s quiet, again, so I have time to work up my nerve. A few minutes into his egg scrambling, I bring up the subject of our deal.

“I’m not sure I like the deal we made last night.”

His green eyes flicker over mine, then return to the eggs. I can see his shoulders tense.

“I’m glad you mentioned that,” he says, sliding a glance at me as he stirs the eggs. "I’ve thought about it more, and I’m thinking it might be best if you head home a little earlier.”

He pauses, giving me a pensive look, and I cross my hand over my stomach. I’m not sure what to say. I just don’t understand.

“You can go whenever you want," he says, meeting my eyes. "You’ll still get your money."

His words hit me like a drop-kick to the chest, and I can’t control what comes out of my mouth. "You don’t want me?"

"I didn’t say that." His words are hot—and so sincere that it’s impossible not to believe him. "If you really want to do this, I do too. But it needs to happen today."

"Why?"

His jaw tightens, and again, he won’t look at me as he stirs. "I’ve got some business that just came up. You’d be more comfortable back at your own place."

Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be. My temper flares. "You’re bullshitting me. Not that it matters. You did pay for this, so you can do whatever you want."

"It’s not Priscilla," he says, pressing his lips together. "It’s not like that."

He moves the eggs off the stove and checks the oven before walking around the bar to stand right in front of me.

His hands tunnel under my hair. “I want you,” he says in a husky voice, and then I can feel how much he wants me bump against my hip. “I’m disappointed about the change of plans. Believe me. But it’s what’s got to be."

"Why did you do it? Why did you say…to stay the week? Why did you even bid on me?"

"I want this to be yours. On your terms. That’s how it should be, Libby. You should be comfortable. I thought you’d like a few days here to get your footing." His fingers, in my hair, trail up my face; his thumb strokes my brow, and I shiver. "I didn’t buy you for sex, although I’d love to take you to my bed. I bought you because I can’t stand the thought of some other bastard pawing at you. Not you."