“I’ve never had a guy spend the night in my apartment before,” I blurted. “Not all night.” Except for Trey. Another twinge. “I don’t know what to do with you.”

A hint of a smile. “I am not that complicated.”

“But you’re here.” In my space. Even when I’d lived with Ashmeeta, our different schedules meant I had plenty of alone time.

The amusement faded from his eyes. “You want me to go.”

I had always been comfortable alone. Curled up with a book, holed up in my attic room. I flushed. “No.”

“Ah.” He regarded me for a moment before he took me in his arms. He held me for a long time, until my muscles slowly relaxed, until our breaths matched, in and out, the way they did when we ran. He was so big. Maybe I was a little worried he would take over, the way Trey tried to do. That he would fill my thoughts, my space, until there wasn’t any room for me anymore. “Jo.” The sound of my name rumbled through me. “Maybe you stop overthinking things, yeah?”

Stop looking for something to go wrong. Stop looking for a way out. “I don’t know how,” I mumbled into his chest.

“Be in the moment.” He stroked my back, my hair. “Be.”

My body softened, molding to his. He was already half-aroused. I was, too. “I’ll try.”

His large hands cupped my head as he tipped my face back. Smiled into my eyes. “I will cook for you.”

“What?” I blurted as he released me.

“I will cook. Breakfast.” He maneuvered around me to open my fridge. “You don’t have food.”

I couldn’t afford to buy a bunch of groceries. Which is why I always ate the family meal. “There’s leftover Chinese.” I spied a carton, lurking on a shelf. “And eggs.”

“Eggs will work.” He took them out. Taking charge, the way he did at the restaurant.

I folded my arms, watching as he cracked the eggs into a bowl. All the eggs, enough to feed us both.

“What are you making? An omelet?” The standard test for every beginning cook.

He shook his head, reaching for a pan, already at home in my kitchen. “You have no cheese. No herbs.”

“I think there’s a jar of parsley flakes around somewhere,” I said.

He shot me an appalled look before he realized I was joking. “Funny girl.”

I grinned. He moved with such deliberation, in full possession of himself, in command of his surroundings. I snuck a glance at his big hands, his calm face as he whipped the eggs to a creamy yellow froth. He swirled a knob of butter in the pan, calling attention to his thick wrists, the play of muscle under his pushed-up sleeves. He scrambled eggs like he was plating an entrée for dinner service, like he made love, with intense focus and attention to detail. Very hot.

Too bad I couldn’t record him. A video tutorial of Chef Eric Bhaer demonstrating scrambled eggs would get a ton of hits. #sexycookingman