Touch Me (Paranormal Romance): The Spark Series Book 1 by Lara Ingvar

Author:Lara Ingvar [Ingvar, Lara]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-02-24T06:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11. The one where the big and scary boss becomes friend

The fragrant smell of sizzling bacon and fried eggs woke me up better than any alarm clock.

I opened my eyes to find myself under a pile of blankets on a huge bed covered with golden sheets.

The bedroom was very large and cozy. Beige walls, Scandinavian-style furniture, two doors.

Above my head, I noticed a painting, an abstract piece depicting a sunrise with the inscription “Thank you for the sun in my life” written beneath it. I was lying naked, still in the same shameful state that Alexander had brought me here. The events of last night flashed through my mind, leaving me filled with shame. But what happened in Hell stayed in Hell.

On the nightstand, where several books were stacked like the owner obviously wanted to read them but couldn’t find the time, lay an enormous white t-shirt. It was obviously one of

Alexander’s. I pulled it on, discovering that it easily reached my mid-thighs. A giant man, Alexander, an absolute giant. In this dress, I walked toward the smell, yawning and trying to smooth my bed hair. It didn’t take long to find it because the room was next to the living room, which was connected to the kitchen. There was a couch in the living room that had been transformed into a bed, covered with a gray fleece blanket. It was clear that Alexander had graciously given me his bedroom. The kitchen was ordinary, white, modern, and impersonal. The kitchen of a bachelor who rarely cooked in it.

The most notable detail in the kitchen was Alexander, who was dressed in sweat pants and a gray T-shirt. He was frying the bacon and eggs and humming contentedly. His muscles were well-defined, and I even felt like touching them. But my mother had taught me that you can get burned badly if you touch hot things.

“Good morning,” I said. Alexander turned to me and, assuming a business-like expression that didn’t match the frying pan in his hands, greeted me. From the diffused light of the many lamps, the blue veins under his fair skin were especially visible. They trailed down his arms and neck like a pattern drawn by an artist’s brush.

“This,” he hesitated a little, “is breakfast. Would you care for some?”

I nodded, stepped closer, and asked, “Smells great. Need any help?”

“If you wouldn’t mind putting the coffee on, that would be great.”

He took out an old-fashioned Turkish coffee pot and a bag of ground grains. I happily started making it. The morning hasn’t really started until you’ve had a cup of coffee. I was surprised there wasn’t a coffee machine in his house, but I was pretty good at making it in a Turkish pot, too.

“Why don’t you have a coffee machine?” I asked to break the long silence.

“Haven’t bought one yet. I haven’t been in this apartment for long, and other things kept coming up that needed to be done.”

“The bedroom is great,” I said, “ but I could have slept on the couch.

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