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Chapter TEN

"Gas...?" He pours the coffee, a slight frown on his face. "Oh, got it."

It's my turn to smile. "You don't have any money worries, do you?"

His grin is charming and sheepish and softens me, even when he says, "Well, no. Trust fund from my grandmother. Can't access most of it until I'm 30, but I have enough."

"Trust fund?" I echo, half-laughing. It seems like a made-up story. "And you live in Manitou?"

"Not everybody wants the same things."

I am so in over my head, and I still don't know what he wants with me. When he points to the milk and sugar, I step forward and fix my coffee, thinking. In books, the rich guys like the working class girl, but it doesn't happen much in real life. I think about asking him straight out what he wants with me, but it's both too soon and too weird to ask that question. It's up to me to keep myself safe, guard in place, until I sort out his motives.

"Have you eaten, Jess?"

"Some cereal."

"Want some eggs with me?"

I shake my hair out of my eyes. "I guess. You don't have to feed me, though, I swear. I've been on my own for two years."

"Before you graduated from high school? Or didn't you-?"

"I graduated, but I just wanted a place of my own." I shrug. "My step-dad is a great guy, but he's...not all there."

"I see." He brushes a hand down my arm. "You'll want a little more than cereal for the hike. Go sit down and let me make us some breakfast."

"You cook?" I settle at the table. It's not fancy, either, just a simple oak round with oak chairs. Maybe the trust fund story is a lie, but I somehow believe him. That car. The way he carries himself, like he expects the world to embrace him.

"I work as a cook, remember?"

I laugh. "Right." The coffee is really good, and I try to relax as I watch him. His body is long and limber, with a lot more muscle when his t-shirt pulls close than you would expect. His rear end is a thing of beauty, and I tend to think of myself as a connoisseur-his is high and muscular and narrow. "Are you an athlete?"

"I was." He breaks eggs into a bowl, stirs them vigorously with a fork. A heavy cast iron pan is on the stove, getting hot. His habits are neat-he drops the egg shells directly into the trash, and when he pours the eggs into the pan, the bowl goes in the sink, not back on the counter. "Snowboarder."

I make a noise and wave a hand dismissively. "All guys snowboard at some level."

He laughs softly. "That's a very Colorado thing to say."

"Is it?"

"Yeah." Deftly, he stirs the eggs in the pan. "Will you put some bread in the toaster for me? It's right there."

"Sure." I jump up, embarrassed that I didn't think to offer. Except that he told me to sit down.

Stop it.

I take a deep breath and force myself to do the simple thing he asked. Bread in toaster. Check. "Do you want butter?"

"It's out. Right there. Plates in that cupboard and silver in this drawer right by my hip."

His dishes are sparse, only a few cups and plates and bowls, and they don't match, but they're nice pottery in swirly patterns, kind of all the same. "Did you make these?"

He snorts. "Yeah, don't tell anybody. Found out ceramics were not my talent, but I like these pieces. Gotta have some dishes, right?"

"Right."