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By the time the washer buzzes that it’s ready and I throw Dixon’s clothes in the dryer, I have a feast for two set out on the kitchen table and a second pot of coffee brewing. My head still hurts, I’m still hung over and guzzling coffee, but I know that, when I’m done cooking and can sit down and enjoy the fruits — well, pancakes and bacon — of my hard work, I’ll feel better.
I get to work mixing dough for some biscuits. I set several large dollops of batter out onto the baking tray and throw them into the oven.
It’s then I hear the shower stop, and I frown — the dryer isn’t done. I’d hoped that the clothes would be ready before Dixon finished his shower, and I’d even hinted that much to him by telling him he should take a long time, but now, I face the unnerving prospect that he’s going to have to stand around naked in my bathroom until his clothes are ready.
Just then, the bathroom door opens, and he steps out, wrapped in a towel that is barely larger than a dishrag. I have bigger towels, but he intentionally chose the smallest one.
“Smells good,” he says, cocky, heart-stopping grin on his face as he strides toward the kitchen, giving only a passing glance toward the clothes dryer, which is still chugging away. Damn machine, why can’t it work faster? Why couldn’t it save me from having to watch as that wet, muscular mountain of a man strides toward me?
His eyes lock onto mine, that same smirk playing on his lips, and it feels like he's reading every thought that's racing through my mind. My cheeks burn even hotter, if that's possible, but I refuse to look away. I won't give him the satisfaction.
Sure, that’s the reason.
"Looks like you might have to entertain me while I wait on my clothes," Dixon says, leaning against the door frame.
I cross my arms over my chest, anchoring myself amidst the storm of emotions he's stirring up. "You can entertain yourself. Go watch some fucking TV if you’re bored. Or you can help me set the table." I'm hoping he'll pick the former; I don't trust my composure if he gets any closer in his current state of undress.
"I'm all about being useful. Where do you want me?"
In the bedroom, with those handcuffs. I mean — fuck; I want you out of my life.
I point to the silverware drawer without meeting his gaze. "Plates, forks, knives…"
"I know how to set a table, princess. What kind of savage do you take me for?" He moves into the kitchen with an effortless grace that belies his size, and a tone that tells me he knows exactly what kind of savage I take him for.
“The worst kind.”
A chuckle is his answer, followed by the tinkling of silverware on the table — a pair of spoons, forks, knives. Then he grabs another cup of coffee and a seat, while I take the biscuits out of the oven and set them on the counter beside the rest of the food. There’s so much food, it’s then I realize just how rattled I am. Who cooks this much food? Especially for a man who’s wearing nothing more than a washcloth.
The dryer buzzes, and I heave a sigh of relief. “Your clothes are ready.”
“And?”
“And there’s already bacon here, and I have no fucking desire for sausage, too. Go put your clothes on.”
Dixon takes his time standing, a motion which becomes a slow, bending rise that’s equaled by the slow rise of his eyebrow and a sarcastic twist of his lips. That smile disappears when I take a tight grip of my knife and viciously slice through a piece of bacon; I’m not sure if he gets the phallic implication, or if he’s just unnerved by the sight of me attacking a piece of meat like a velociraptor, but, either way, that smile disappears.
He stops in front of the dryer, throwing a look down the hall toward me.
“Should I just get dressed right here, then?”
My answer — Hell no, stop, grab your clothes and get dressed in the other room — is just on my lips as he drops his towel and I have to throw my eyes to the ceiling to avoid seeing something I definitely don’t want to see.
Dixon's chuckle fills the space again, a low rumble that seems to bounce off the walls, and I can hear the rustle of fabric as he finally clothes himself. It takes a little too long for my peace of mind, but at least my kitchen remains a sausage-free zone.
"Can't say I didn't offer you a show in exchange for your hospitality," he says with that infuriating cockiness as he saunters back in, fully dressed now.
“I’ve seen bigger.”
“What?”
“Yeah, when I helped my cousin take care of her newborn. I had diaper duty a few times.”
His jaw drops, and I can't help the laughter that escapes me. The tension breaks like a popped balloon. We sit down to eat, and I'm hyper-aware of his presence across from me. He devours the food with a hunger that's more than physical — like he’s coming back to life, after so long adrift, he finally has a purpose, a mission that could change the way he sees himself and the crime he holds himself accountable for.
Not that I don’t attack my plate myself. I eat with the hunger that only comes after too much beer and too much tequila; the amount of bacon and eggs I devour would wipe out a small farm.
Plate cleaned, twice, I set aside my fork and look at him. He’s still eating, but he’s slowed, and his eyes meet mine. Dixon is a murderer, but there’s a reason that it was remarkably easy to flirt with him back in the bar.
