“I know what you came here for,” she answered, shooting him a wry grin. “And we will definitely get to that. But don’t you think we should talk first?”
The easy grin slid off his face, as did the remnants of desire. His eyes grew shuttered and only the wild, storm-tossed blue of them let her know that he was in there. And that he was hurting. Everything else about him was blank. Empty.
Wrapping an arm around his waist, she propelled him toward the kitchen and the granite ledge that had two barstools tucked under it. “Sit,” she told him, shoving him gently toward the closest one. “Have you eaten?”
He didn’t answer and she didn’t push. Instead, she walked to the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of eggs, some fruit, and some cheese. “I’m not a very good cook,” she told him as she started rummaging around the cupboards for a bowl. “But even I can make an omelet without too much trouble.”
“You don’t have to cook for me.” His voice sounded rusty, and when she glanced over her shoulder at him, he was watching her with a look so intense it took her breath away.
“I know I don’t have to,” she told him. “I want to. Besides, I’m hungry. An earth-shattering orgasm will do that to a girl.”
“I wouldn’t know,” he answered, sounding glib. “Not having had an earth-shaking orgasm of my own.”
She laughed. “Eat some eggs and we’ll see about remedying that.”
“Food, with the promise of sex after? Has any guy, ever, turned that combination down?”
“Nice to know rock gods are the same as any other guy underneath,” she told him as she began cracking eggs into a bowl.
“Is that your way of calling me basic?” he asked, brow raised.
“I’m pretty sure rock gods, by definition, can’t be basic. Not to mention it’s probably in your contract.”
His smile faded. “Yeah, well, a lot of things are in my contract.”
“Including the fact that Bill Germaine can’t bully you into quitting the band. The guys checked.” And so had she, but she couldn’t tell him that, not if she was going to keep her cover as social media director.
A quick flicker of his eyes was the only indication he’d even heard her and she decided not to pursue it. At least not yet…
The next few minutes passed in a companionable silence as Poppy cleaned and sliced up some fruit before setting a platter of it in front of Wyatt. “Eat,” she urged as he looked at the plate like he’d never seen such a thing before. “You need the vitamins.”
“I’m a grown man. Drug and alcohol addiction aside, I do know how to take care of myself, you know.”
Yeah, because she’d seen so much evidence of that in the time she’d been in Austin. No wonder Caleb had sent her down here—Wyatt totally needed a keeper. Not that she said that to him, though. Instead, she just nodded at the plate, telling him, “So prove it.”
He rolled his eyes at her, but as she slapped a slice of butter in a pan and set it on the stove to melt, she noticed that he was dutifully popping a strawberry in his mouth.
Once the butter was melted, she got the eggs and cheese in the pan and within minutes was sliding a slightly lopsided but completely edible omelet onto a plate, along with a couple of slices of whole wheat toast. But when she went to hand said plate to Wyatt, surprise flashed across his face for just a moment.
“Now is not the time to tell me you don’t like cheese omelets,” she informed him as she poured more eggs in the skillet for her own dinner.
“Definitely not what I was going to say,” he answered, and for the first time she realized that there was a red tinge to his cheekbones. She had no idea what she’d said or done to embarrass him, but she kept an eye on him as she cooked—and it was only partly because the slight blush somehow made him even more attractive.
He ate the fruit, but kept looking at the omelet she’d set in front of him like it was an alien life form. And she noticed that he definitely didn’t touch it.
“I was just joking, you know,” she said as she slid a second omelet onto her own plate. “I can totally make you something else if you don’t like eggs.”
“No!” Wyatt all but shouted, then lowered his voice at her look of alarm. “No, no, I like omelets just fine. It’s just…except for Jamison, no one’s ever cooked for me before. Thank you.”
“No one?” she asked curiously.
“Well, my mom, when I was little I guess. But not since I was six.”