Reaper (Montana Bounty Hunters Book 1) by Delilah Devlin

Author:Delilah Devlin [Devlin, Delilah]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781626951303
Published: 2017-11-13T16:00:00+00:00

In the middle of the night, she made him a stack of grilled cheese sandwiches and two more for herself, watching bemused as he consumed them in large, efficient bites. She wore one of his navy T-shirts with the gold Montana Bounty Hunters logo. The shirt fell nearly to her knees. He wore a pair of faded jeans, the top button undone. All that broad, manly chest was bare for her to ogle, which she did, completely unashamed.

When he finished the last one, he met her stare, frowning. “I’ll hit the clinic on Monday. Get checked.”

She met his frown with one of her own. “Do that.”

“You pissed?”

Sighing, she shook her head. “I didn’t think you were a choir boy, but hearing the words was...jolting.” She dropped her glance to her coffee cup and circled the rim with a finger. “I know you’ve probably had hundreds of women.”

A scoff sounded. “Not hundreds.”

“Dozens,” she bit out.

He grimaced then shrugged.

She arched a brow. This conversation was going from bad to worse. “You don’t know?”

Brows furrowed, he reached out and placed his hand over hers. “Like you said. I’m not a choir boy.”

So, she was just another notch on his bedpost. Her shoulders slumped, and she toyed with the leftover crust of her sandwich.

He cleared his throat. “I’ve never wanted to be monogamous. Didn’t think I could do it.”

The way he said it, or maybe the way he stared, with his cool, unblinking gaze, caught her attention. “Is that something...that might change?”

“Let’s see...”

Don’t push, he meant. But a flicker of hope ignited inside her, and she relaxed. No, she didn’t expect this would last forever, but she did hope it would last longer than the term of her ride-along.

He pointed at his empty plate. “Those were good.”

With a one-sided smile, she said, “I have a confession.”

His eyelids dipped as he stared at her mouth. “You spit in my sandwiches?”

Jerking back her head, she wrinkled her nose. “Who’d have the guts to do that to you? No, you’ve tasted the only thing I can cook. Can’t even boil eggs—the shells split and the centers turn green.”

He chuckled. “I can cook. We won’t starve.”

“Yeah?” She lifted her coffee cup and peered over the rim. “Who taught you?” Her own mother had a live-in housekeeper who took care of nasty things like cooking and cleaning.

“Learned from an Italian who lived in my barracks when I was in the Marines. Most meals, we had to eat in the mess hall. But on weekends, when we were free, we’d gather money from anyone who wanted a home-cooked meal and buy supplies. He showed me how to make a lot of things.”

“So you can make spaghetti?”

He rolled his eyes. “Spaghetti’s only the noodles. I make a variety of sauces—bolognaise, marinara, alfredo... I also make lasagna and homemade pizza.”

“Hope I’m here long enough for you to cook for me.” As soon as she said it, she wished she could take back the statement, because his easy, open expression changed to something a lot less readable.

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