Filthy English by Ilsa Madden-Mills Page B

sitting by the stove. “Doesn’t that sound like a jolly time?”
    As long as I’d lived here, he’d never turned on the stove.
    “Uh, yeah.” I paused, scratching my jaw as I assessed him. “You doing okay today? Feeling any cravings?”
    “Bite me.” His eyes veered toward me then bounced back to the pan he stirred. “Just got the shakes. Too much vodka last night.”
    I ruffled his crazy sticking-up-everywhere blue hair. “Alright then, Chef Spider. I’ll make the coffee.”
    He busied himself scrambling the eggs while I finished the coffee and scrounged around in the fridge until I found orange juice, jam, and butter.
    “Want some toast?” I asked, eyeing the bread I’d picked up at the bakery a few days ago.
    “Sure.” He shrugged, his shoulders still thin but more filled out than when I’d first picked him up three months ago. He’d also gained some muscle, about twenty pounds of it. It was a hell of a good start, and helping him figure out which sets and reps to do for the optimal results had been good for both of us. Of course, at first, he’d dragged his feet and said he would never be a gym rat, but I’d laid down an ultimatum: if he wanted to continue wagering with me, he had to show some incentive in taking care of his body.
    A few minutes later, we sat down to eat. His eggs were a little over-scrambled, the bacon greasy, and the toast barely warm, but we wolfed it down.
    “Spider?”
    “Yes, princess?”
    “I’ve been thinking . . .” I said, trailing off, trying to wrap my head around exactly what was in my gut.
    “Uh-oh, your face is pale. Should I pour us a drink first?”
    “No,” I smirked. “What do you think about me buying a house?”
    Bacon fell out of his mouth. He blinked. “You’re asking me for advice?”
    “Why not? You’re a homeowner. Why wouldn’t I ask you?”
    “I’m flattered. Here? You mean I’d have some family in London?”
    “No, man. Back home where I have to finish school.”
    A shadow crossed his face and I sensed disappointment, but he grinned, albeit a crooked one. “Oh. Yeah. That makes sense. I mean, you do have a life, and you don’t need to be taking care of me all the time.”
    “Dude. You’ve been clean of the heavy stuff for three months, and it doesn’t have anything to do with me being here. You’ll be fine once I’m gone and you get back on tour.”
    He nodded, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “I know. I know. It’s just, Mum is who-knows-where with some Italian playboy and Dad’s in New York—shit, you and Declan are the only family I see.”
    “You can always pop in and see me in Raleigh.”
    “Yeah.” His fork poked at his eggs.
    “You know I have to leave soon, right?” I said the words casually, but watched his reaction carefully.
    He shrugged.
    I changed the direction of the convo. “Look, you’re older than me. I’d love your advice. Do you think buying a house is a good investment?”
    He rubbed his hand across the black widow on his neck. “I listen to my gut when I can’t decide the big stuff. What does yours say?”
    I exhaled. “I’d honestly never thought about it until Declan brought it up this morning. I suck in the classroom, but I love working with my hands—and the idea of taking care of my own place, like you do here, gives me a rush.”
    “Sounds like you’ve already made up your mind.”
    “Yeah.” Maybe I should call Declan back. “So what’s on the agenda today?”
    He took a sip of coffee. “Lulu called.”
    “Oh?” I guess they’d exchanged digits. Spider might be a smartarse, but women loved that on him. “You interested in that?”
    He shook his head. “No.”
    “Then why bring her up?”
    He shrugged. “She happened to mention they’re headed out to see some sights today, and I thought we might want to tag along—you know, as tour guides.”
    “I need a break from Remi.”
    “If you’re just friends, then what’s wrong with hanging out?”
    My lips tightened.