Imposter by Karen Fenech

with blue stripes.  They smelled faintly of lemon and were fresh, and crisp.  Burke must have made up the bed while she’d been in the bathroom, taking her insulin injection.
Either he liked a lot of space when he slept, or he didn’t sleep alone when he was up here.  The thought of Burke tangling in the sheets with a woman did strange things to her insides.  She pushed the thought away.
She was angry at him over their argument and didn’t think she’d be able to sleep, but fatigue outweighed the anger and she did sleep. She awoke to the smell of bacon frying.  The bedroom faced east and caught the first morning rays but with the progression of the sun, the room was now in twilight.  She glanced at her watch, squinting to make out the numbers in the dimness.  One o’clock.  Afternoon. She’d slept half the day away.  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d done that.
She’d slept in her clothes. Her shorts and blouse were wrinkled.  She hadn’t looked in a mirror, but she knew that her dark hair was wild upon awakening.  She had no reason to think today would be the exception to that rule.  Since she slept on her stomach, squashing her face into the pillow beneath her head, her eyes tended to be puffy and droopy when she rose from her slumber.
Normally, she would make herself presentable before facing another person. She spotted her suitcase by the front door where Burke must have left it.  She’d have to walk past him to get it. So much for making herself presentable before facing him.
She leaned back against the wall and bowed her head.  With the state her life was in, her appearance was her least concern. 
She padded over the worn wood floor to the kitchen, following the scent of coffee and the promise of caffeine.  Burke stood at the stove, cracking eggs into a sizzling skillet.  The eggs made a hissing sound as they struck the hot pan. 
He wore jeans again but had added a shirt.  His dark hair was damp from a recent shower and combed back from his face.  He’d shaved exposing the hard jaw line that seemed to always draw her eye when she glanced at him.  She looked away from it, from him.
His gaze lifted from the skillet at her approach and honed on her.  His jaw tensed.  In reaction to her rumpled state? Was he a man who expected women to be perfectly groomed all the time?  Thinking that about him, she reluctantly admitted caused a sense of disappointment.   For some reason, she’d expected better of him. 
He was blocking her view of the coffee maker.  “Is there coffee?”
Burke stepped aside, clearing a path and revealing a three-quarters full pot.   The mug she’d used the night before was washed and draining on a rubber mat. She moved closer to him to retrieve the mug and fill it.  His body tensed and he took another step away from her.  Well, damn, she needed some tidying up, but his reaction was getting downright insulting.   
Burke’s own mug stood near the pot.  He clasped it by the base rather than the ear, his large hand completely covering a decal of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
Eve went to the fridge and helped herself to the milk.  Burke returned to the skillet. 
The aroma wafting from the pan made Eve’s mouth water.  She’d had no more than a greasy burger from a twenty-four hour fast-food drive-through the night before.  Burke had eaten the same and as he went about filling two plates with eggs, bacon, potatoes, and toast with portions suitable for a team of lumberjacks, it was obvious that he was famished as well.
She gained further evidence of that when he dug in and cleared his plate before she’d had little more time than to settle onto the wooden kitchen chair.
* * *
Burke forced himself to keep his gaze on his plate  - and not on the woman seated across from him at his table.  It was turning out to be a monumental task.  She was an attractive woman, no doubt about it, and she knew how to make the most of her looks.  She had the make-up