"That's a shitty way to greet someone who's making you breakfast," he says. He reaches up into one of the cabinets and hands me a coffee mug. "Coffee's over there. Get some."
"Obviously you've familiarized yourself with my kitchen," I say. "I don't know if I should be disturbed or impressed." I'm miffed at the way he just orders me around, telling me to "get some" coffee in my own damn house. I'm also annoyed with how comfortable he seems here, cooking and going through my cabinets and my refrigerator and making himself right at home. I'm about to make a smart comment about it, but the aroma of coffee is distracting and I wind up just pouring myself a cup instead.
"I had to buy you some groceries," he says. "I don't know what you've been eating -- yogurt and salad, by the looks of it."
"I eat out a lot," I say, my voice defensive. My stomach rumbles loudly at the aroma of the bacon, though. Still, I don't need another lecture from Hendrix, of all people, about taking care of myself. Although it does look like he knows how to take care of himself. The thought pops into my head, and I find myself stealing another glance at him.
Hendrix looks over at me, and I know he just caught me staring at him. My cheeks burn, and I try to cover my embarrassment by taking a sip of coffee. And I nearly choke. Hendrix laughs. "Yeah, I make it strong."
"I guess so," I say. "Did you learn that in the Marines?"
Hendrix shrugs. "That's self-taught. What can I say? Coffee is my vice," he says. He turns around and looks at me, his gaze running down my body. "Not my only vice."
I swallow hard, forcing my eyes upward and definitely not focusing on his chest. His bare, muscular, tattooed, damn-it-stop-looking-focus-your-eyes-up chest. And his abs. He doesn't have an ounce of fat on his body, which is especially impressive after I watched him eat enough food to feed a small army yesterday.
But then I remind myself that Hendrix is not just another hot guy. He's an asshole. Leopards don't change their spots, and assholes definitely don't change their...assholiness or something. Not to mention the fact that he's my stepbrother.
I definitely don't need to be thinking about him like this. Or feeling the heat rush through my body as he looks at me.
"I'm sure that's the least of your vices," I say, hinting at Hendrix's past as a total manwhore. "You haven't changed at all."
The look that crosses over his face makes me think I might have hurt him, and I feel badly for a moment. But then it passes. "You've definitely changed, sweet cheeks."
I flush warm again under his gaze, and I instinctively reach up to touch my hair, the hot mess that it is, pulled up into a haphazard ponytail. Damn it, why did I come out here without even glancing in the mirror first? And in my clothes from yesterday. I just know I look like total crap right now, and meanwhile, Hendrix is standing half-naked in my damn kitchen, not even a foot away from me, looking like sex-on-a-stick.
Hendrix's laugh breaks through my thoughts. "It's fine," he says, nodding at my attempt to pat my hair back into place. "Like I haven't seen you after you've just rolled out of bed before."
My heart races at the intimacy of his words, and I nearly choke on my sip of coffee again. "What? You've never seen me just out of bed."
Not that I haven't thought about it, though. How many times have I thought about Hendrix seeing me in bed?
Too many to count, that's the answer. The very inappropriate freaking answer.
Hendrix laughs again. "We lived together for two years, Addy-girl," he says. "It's not like you never rolled up into the kitchen after you just woke up in the morning. It's not a big deal."
He turns again, his back to me as he spoons eggs and bacon onto a plate, then grabs toast from the toaster. Not a big deal, I think. That's right. I have to remind myself of the fact that Hendrix has never thought of me the way I've fantasized about him.
The way I've fantasized about him despite my better judgment. Because my libido apparently likes guys who are total dicks.
Hendrix hands me a plate. "So, Addy-girl," he says. "What's on your agenda today, other than ogling me in the kitchen?"
"I am not ogling you." I huff and turn toward the dining room, thankful for the excuse to get away from Hendrix and his glorious abs. Because that's what they are. I've been around a lot of hot guys for the past few years, but none of them compare to Hendrix, especially since he's returned from his stint in the Marines. Now, he seems to have this brooding intensity about him that's different from other men. He looks more dangerous than the guys I'm surrounded by. And that makes me shiver.
"Don't lie," he says, pulling up a chair right beside me at the table. I picked the chair on the end of the table on purpose, but he sits down right beside me like he doesn't care. He's uncomfortably close.
"I'm not lying," I say. "I was in no way ogling you. Why are you sitting right next to me?"