He didn’t respond, just set the plates in the middle of the table, pulled his shirt on, and sat across from her. When she didn’t immediately fill her plate, he loaded it up with two slices of French toast and more eggs than she could possibly eat. His knuckles were scraped and red, and they looked painful, but he didn’t seem to notice as he piled four slices of French toast and the remainder of the eggs onto his plate and began eating. He shoveled mounds of eggs into his mouth and ate each piece of French toast in only two bites, like a human vacuum. The man was like a machine checking off a to-do list—Wake up. Feed wounded girl. Feed self—and she was mesmerized. What other secret talents did he have?

He eyed her over a forkful of eggs. His gaze moved to her plate, then back to her face, and he lifted his chin, his silent message received loud and clear. Eat.

She wasn’t very hungry, but he’d gone to so much trouble, she poured syrup on the French toast and took a bite. Holy cow. It was mouthwateringly good, fluffy with a hint of vanilla and the perfect amount of cinnamon. “This is delicious.”

He gave one curt nod, accompanied by a manly sound that was neither a grunt nor a growl, but wholly Diesel.

She continued eating, savoring every bite. “Mm. Seriously, this is amazing. Where did you learn to cook?”

Those dark eyes flicked to her for half a second as he finished eating, but he didn’t answer. He drank his juice and immediately guzzled his coffee. Juice. Check. Coffee. Check. It was like eating with a really talented caveman.

He piled the two empty plates on top of his, pushed to his feet, stabbed two fingers into his empty juice glass, two into his empty mug, and carried it all to the sink, where he promptly started washing them.

“I can do those.”

“I’ve got it,” he said gruffly.

As she ate, she watched him moving efficiently from one task to the next, washing and drying everything by hand, including the pans and mixing bowls, and putting them back into the cabinets where they belonged. He turned and reached for her plate, which was still loaded up with eggs.

His brows slanted. “You need the eggs for protein.”

“I ate some. They were good, but I can’t eat that much.”

He dragged his eyes down the length of her, as if he didn’t believe her.

“Diesel, I ate enough. I promise. Now step away from the sink so I can wash my dishes, or I might never let you go home.”

She stood with the plate in her hands, and he took it from her. “Drink your juice.”

“You really do have a daddy complex, don’t you?”

His jaw clenched. “Vitamin C helps reduce inflammation.”