Counting Sheep

Chapter 8

She stood on her tiptoes and looked outside as she licked her dry lips.

You could tell there had been a massive storm.

They skies were still a murky gray as if still trying to decide if it should rain more. Tree branches were strewn amuck and some of them were broken and hanging limply.

Sighing, she turned away and walked over to the refrigerator to see what he had. Surprisingly, his fridge wasn't completely barren. He actually had food even though he lived alone and lived the bachelor life-style.

Her eyes narrowed at that, but she reached in to grab some eggs, milk, peppers and sausage.

Then, she began to cook.

As she did so, she wished she had some music to listen to as she puttered around the kitchen, but she didn't, so instead she just hummed under her breath, swaying to an invisible tune only she could hear.

She made scrambled eggs –using an old recipe that had always made them that much more delicious along with some cinnamon French toast and spicy hash-browns.

Soon, the kitchen smelled wonderfully of spices and pepper, of cream and sugar along with cinnamon.

For the last thing she made a fruit salad, cutting up some strawberries, pineapples, and blueberries before drizzling it all with fresh honey she found in the pantry and a sprinkle  of sugar for sweetness.

She was just getting some orange juice out of the fridge, her butt high in the air and wiggling as she tried to get it when she felt a tickle of awareness go up the back of her neck.

Spinning around, her eyes instantly found Frank and her knees suddenly went weak. She hadn't heard him and she didn't understand how a man of his size could have been so silent. She could only stare at him, though, and he stared back, too.

From what she could tell, he had been on a run.

His hair was pulled back and a sheen of sweat covered his forehead. He held his shirt clutched in one fist while the other hung limply at his side. It was the first time she was seeing Frank's bare chest and god, what a chest it was.

Tattoos decorated his skin, not hiding the hard ridges and planes of muscles and small patches of his golden skin peeked out here and there. His body was a piece of artwork, and she could do nothing but stare and admire it.

Suddenly realizing that she had just been standing there watching him like a gawking school-girl, she blushed furiously and tore her gaze away from his.

He walked past her to go to the room and she felt her skin flush with warmth and tingles. She told herself not to look, but she couldn't help herself.

He grabbed a shirt from the dresser and began to pull it on and that was the when Layla saw his scars.

He was standing at just an angle where if you were standing directly behind him, you wouldn't have been able to see them, but at an angle you could see the disruption of the skin, the long and jagged puckered flesh.

Her heart squeezed painfully.

What had happened to him?

Before he could catch her staring, she turned away, swallowing hard.

He stepped into the kitchen, practically pulling the air from her lungs as he crossed his large arms across his chest and leaned against the fridge.

"What are you doing?" Frank asked in a low tone.

She swallowed hard again and turned to him with what she hoped was an easy, happy and cheerful expression.

"I am making breakfast," Said Layla. "You helped me out so much, I figured it was the least I could do. Plus, I enjoy it. So, please, sit!"