I pour a bowl of cereal, start shoveling it into my mouth, and only then do I allow myself to look toward the door.
The bag is gone.
I sigh, shake my head, pull out my laptop, and start putting out fires even as I’m silently cursing stubborn fucking women.
Screech!
I jerk my head up at the sound of hinges that need oiling—considering the guest room in my place is rarely used—and my gaze goes down the hall.
There’s a sliver of light and footsteps and…
Christ, she’s beautiful.
Shining brown hair curling softly around her shoulders, face scrubbed clean of makeup, cheeks pink from what I presume is her time in the hot shower?—
And that’s not helpful.
Because then I’m thinking about hertakinga shower.
I’m thinking about her beingnakedin said shower and?—
She falters slightly, missing a step.
Probably because I’m staring at her like she’s something I want to devour.
Lush curves encased in silky black pajama pants, a gray tank peeking out from beneath a black hoodie. Simple clothes…but on that tempting body? They’re sin personified.
“You stayed,” I say and manage to do it sounding relatively normal.
At least it gets her moving again, feet clad in fuzzy white socks moving soundlessly on the floor.
Her nose wrinkles. “Turns out that you’re right.”
The acerbic tone makes me smile. “How’s it feel admitting that?”
“Like chewing glass instead of bubblegum.”
I laugh then push up from my stool. “You hungry?”
“No,” she says, “I’m fine.” Except the last word is drowned out by her stomach growling.
I laugh again. “Liar.” Then, before she can protest, I open a cabinet and pull out a bowl. “I’ve been out of town all week so the situation in my fridge is kind of dire, but I have milk and plenty of cereal.” I tug open the pantry door, gesture at the boxes on the shelf.
Silence is my only response.
And when I process that, I spin back to face her, see that her mouth has dropped open.
“Holy processed sugar, Batman,” she murmurs. “Do you have a thing against real food?”
“Thisisreal food.”
She shifts by me, giving me a hint of that floral scent. I know it’s not from the products in my spare bathroom, so it must just be…her.
Flowers and spice.
“Frosted Sugar O’s?” She pulls out the box, turns it so she can read the nutritional label. “Oh! Only one-hundred-and-twenty percent of your daily recommended serving of sugar. For a half cup. Wow, what densely packed nutrition! However can your body need anything else?”
“Anyone ever tell you you’re a smart ass?” I ask, snagging the box and refilling my bowl.
