But it wasn’t his beautiful body that had her pulse quickening, or the tattoos or lack thereof that had her stepping toward the man who hated to be touched, and despite the consequences, wrapping her arms around him from behind. She pressed her cheek to his hot skin, one hand flat on his stomach, the other still holding his shirt. His muscles flexed, rigid with discomfort, but she was powerless against the overwhelming gratitude swamping her. She would be a whole different person today if he hadn’t saved her last night. Would she even have survived whatever those men had planned to do to her?

He inhaled deeply, his body puffing up to what felt like twice its normal size.

“Thank you,” she said softly, and lowered her hands, taking a step back.

Diesel didn’t move, tension wafting off him like the wind.

“I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable. I just appreciate everything you’ve done for me.” She had so many questions. Why did he let her sleep on him last night but flinch when she hugged him? Had she been too out of it to realize he’d been uncomfortable all night, too? Did any part of him think she’d caused those men to come back?

No, she wouldn’t let herself believe that.

Silence stretched between them for so long, she was pretty sure he was trying to keep from exploding at her. Why did he hate being touched?

He turned with two plates in his hands, his face a mask of seriousness. One plate was piled high with French toast, and the other had a mountain of scrambled eggs on it. The strangeness of Diesel doing anything domestic was too much. Nervous laughter fell from her lips. “You cooked? Is that for the guys out front?”

“They’re fine. You need to eat.” He lifted his chin toward the kitchen table, where she was surprised to see two place settings, complete with glasses of orange juice and two mugs of coffee, a bottle of syrup, and a stick of butter on a plate.

“Were you a chef in a previous life?” She set his shirt on his chair and sat at the table.