Infected

Chapter 12

What do you do when a gorgeous specimen is strolling around your kitchen, making the act of cooking eggs look like a performance? What do you say when he asks you if you prefer your omelet well done or not? You didn't even know eggs could be well done. 

Well, after fumbling with a lack luster answer to his question, you stare, taking him in with every chance you get. His black tee shirt fits him snuggly, forming around the muscles of his back, the line of his spine starts at his broad shoulders and runs straight to his narrow waist. His dark jeans are tailored perfectly, displaying his toned thighs and well, I have to say it... his amazing ass.

I smirk at the show I'm seeing. He even makes pouring coffee look like an art. Every move is fluid, like he's a drop of ink sinking into a pool of water. He spins on his heels and hands me a warm mug.

"Cream?"

"No thank you." I say, "I drink my coffee black."

"Interesting. You know it's occurred to me that I barely know anything about you. If I'm going you be your chaffuer and personal chef, I should get to know you."

"Well what do you want to know?" I rest my chin on a closed fist.

"Where are you from?" He dices up a green onion.

"Here." I answer sarcastically.

"No you're not."

I scrunch my nose, "Guess."

"Texas?" Damn, I was hoping to stretch this out to save me from more questions.

"Was it the crazy hair that gave me away or the giant Texas shaped plaque I have in the entryway?"

"It's the attitude. Only Texans have a soul of fury."

"That luckily doesn't come from Texas. I'm from Beaumont, you've probably never heard of it."

"I have but I've only been to Dallas for seminars."

"Yeah well, I'm sure you saved yourself a trip. There's not much that happens there."

"Is that why you left?"

"No."

"Okay."

"Really? You don't want to know why I'm living so far away from there?"

"If you felt comfortable to tell me, you would have."

"Oh."

"Although I am curious about the French name."

Where have I heard that before? My brows draw together as I search for why his accurate statement was tickling the back of my mind.

"My father was from Louisiana, his family descended from the original French colonies." 

I feel like I'm repeating myself. 

He takes the omelet out of the pan and sprinkles it with salt and pepper. He slides the plate to me, sending the smell of cheese and green onions into my nostrils. My stomach growls again at the promise of a hot meal. "Eat before it gets cold."

I scoop up a bite as he watches me. It burns my mouth but still tastes delicious, cooked to perfection. i notice his lack of omelet and I cut another piece of the dish and lift it towards his face. He had to understand that food like this was too good not to share. If he refused this tiny offer, maybe I had more things to worry about than him asking about my origins. To refuse food when offered by a mangled person, well, someone who isn't human would do that.

"Have a bite." He gives me an annoyed but adorable look, "Oh come on, amuse me for a few seconds."

He takes my fork and shoves it into his mouth. He places the utensil back in my hand and chews it slowly, a grin stretching across his perfect rosy lips, "Damn I'm a good cook."