He softly growled as he moved around the kitchen to familiarize himself with it. He pulled out a few steaks, heated the skillet and found a plate, then got the tongs to turn his steaks as he seared them.
He sat at the island eating while thoughts of Becca Oberto plagued him. She was a complication he wasn’t sure he wanted to deal with. He could ask her father to allow him to live in the bigger house near the road. It would simplify things but that would be cowardly. He lifted his gaze to the fridge, studying the photos that were stuck on it—Becca with different humans. She smiled in all of them and appeared happy. It was a confusing contradiction if she had turned to drinking a lot of alcohol. He wasn’t too sure of his human facts but it implied she had serious issues. Her mate dying would do it.
He finished his dinner, cleaned up the mess and washed his dishes. He heard music when he turned off the water and dried his hands. It was too early to go to bed and his room didn’t have a television. He’d need to ask for one, he missed his cable channels already and regretted volunteering to take the mission for his people.
Someone needed to work with the human task force though. A Species female would have been perfect for the job but he hadn’t wanted to expose any of them to human males. Everything he’d learned so far about them made him believe they’d harass her. It was a man’s world outside the NSO gates, or so he’d been told. Females were to be protected at all costs. The idea of allowing one to go into danger made his entire body stiffen. He’d tough it out and would deal with whatever came his way. Better him than one of the females.
He worried about Becca as he put his foot on the bottom step to return to his room. She wasn’t a big female and a memory of a movie he’d watched made him turn back. She could drink enough to become violently ill and he wanted to check on her health.
He followed the rock music and paused in the archway to the family room. Becca sat at the bar with a bottle and a tiny glass in front of her. She seemed to sense him and turned her head. The wide grin she gave him and her overly bright, blue eyes assured him that she’d drunk too much. She waved him over, her movements clumsy.
“Hello, handsome. Wanna drink?”
Her voice slurred a little and it shocked him that she’d called him that. “My name is Brawn. I don’t know of any Species who chose to be called that.”
A giggle made her shoulders shake and she snorted softly. “I know your name. You’re good-looking but you know that, right?”
She found him attractive. That fact left him speechless.
She patted the seat next to her. “Wanna drink? It doesn’t burn going down anymore.”
He inched into the room. “I don’t drink alcohol but thank you for the offer. How many have you had?”
“I don’t know.” She nearly slipped off the chair as she adjusted on the seat. “Not enough. I’m still conscious.”
“Drinking alcohol inebriates you, slows your response time and makes logic difficult to practice.”
She laughed. “You are so cute.”
His eyebrows lifted. No one had ever called him that before. Ferocious, a bastard and other choice names but never something that implied that definition. Worry ate at him more over her mental state.
“Perhaps you should go to bed and sleep. I’ve heard a saying that things always look better in the morning.”
“It’s early.” She patted the barstool next to her. “Come over here. I won’t bite.”
“Aren’t you afraid I will?” He couldn’t resist opening his mouth and showing her his canines, curious why she didn’t seem to fear him. Human women always did.
“Nope.” She patted the barstool again. “Come closer.” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re kind of blurry.” She giggled. “I don’t drink often but when I do, wow boy, do I do it right.”
He’d never heard that phrasing before and approached her cautiously. It was a bad idea, he should go to his room, but worry kept him there. She needed someone to look out for her. Her mate wasn’t around anymore to do it and her father wasn’t living inside her home. It was up to him to make certain she didn’t have any misadventures in her defenseless state.
He sat on the barstool, too close to her in his estimation—and hoped she didn’t throw up the way he’d seen women do in movies. “I don’t understand why you would purposely do this to your body.”
“You mean the calories?” She glanced down. “I could lose some weight. I sit on my butt too much at work but it’s not as though I have to impress anyone anymore.”
“Calories?”
“You know, because I’m a little overweight.”
He studied her body. “You’re very small. You can’t weigh much.”
“I’m a hundred-and-sixty pounds.” She laughed then clasped a hand over her mouth and giggled before lowering it. “I usually lie.” She leaned closer to him. “I say I weigh twenty pounds less than I really do.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Lie?” She reached out and pressed her palm to his chest. “It’s what women do. We lie about our weight, our age and our sexual history.”
Confusion gripped him again and he tried to ignore the warmth of her hand soaking through the thin cotton of his shirt. “Why would you do that?”
“You want to know about humans? They lie. We’re sneaky bastards or bitches sometimes. If our mouths are moving, well, expect some bullshit. It’s just human nature. In my case, I hate admitting that I’ve only slept with two men. It sounds pathetic and I lie about my age because I’m coming up on the big three-o. Thirty. That’s a bad thing to women. As for the weight, we wear stuff, trying to hide the flab.”
“Flab?”
“You know, those extra little unsightly bulges.”
He glanced down her body, paused on her breasts and frowned. His gaze lifted. “There is nothing unsightly about you.”
Her free hand reached for his and he allowed her to move it to her side. She pressed it against her waist. “Squeeze.”
He gently did as she bid, amazed at how soft she felt through her clothes and the give in her skin. She smiled at him.
“Feel that? Love handles. I’ve got them.”
He opened his hand and released her. “You feel nice.”
“It doesn’t look so hot.” She patted his chest. “You’re so nice. I hope the guys on my dad’s team don’t rub off on you. Men can be real lying jerks but you’re different.”
“I’m honest.”
Her eyes narrowed and she licked her lips—her pink tongue darted out to wet the lower one and her hand slid a little lower to press over his heart. “Stay that way.”
“I don’t like deceit.”
“Me neither.” She inhaled deeply, leaned back, removed her hand and faced the bar. “But it’s necessary.”
“I don’t understand. You have secrets you need to protect?”
She wrapped her hand around the glass, lifted it and took a sip. A grimace twisted her features and she put it down. “The burn is gone but it tastes like shit.”
He inhaled, the vile smell of alcohol there, but nothing to indicate it would taste of excrement. “Don’t drink it.”
“It helps.” She stared at the bar. “Sometimes I want to forget stuff and when I’m hurting it helps numb me.”
Worry gripped him. “You need medical attention?” He sniffed again, leaned a little closer and tried to get an in-depth take on her scent. She smelled of strawberries, oatmeal and laundry detergent but he didn’t pick up any trace of illness.
She turned her head and smiled. “What are you doing?”
“You don’t have the chemical smell of humans who take medications. It sweats out of the pores. You’re ill?”
“No. I just had horrible taste in men and my father drives me nuts. I think my grandfather left me the guesthouse because he knew I’d never talk to my dad otherwise. We don’t get along.”