And, damn, she looked good. Her hair was tousled from sleep, falling in soft waves around her shoulders. No makeup, just smooth skin that practically glowed in the morning light streaming through the windows.
“Morning, Sunshine.”
When she glared at me, I couldn’t contain my smirk. That was, until my traitorous eyes went on an unauthorized scouting mission all over her body. They cataloged how her gray cotton shorts hugged her hips like they were painted on, how her tank top with no bra showcased her toned abs and the curve of her breasts. The thin cotton did absolutely nothing to hide the fact that she was cold, her nipples clearly visible through the material.
“Stop staring at me,” she grumbled, padding to the cabinet to retrieve her mug.
And the way she said it, all husky and rough from sleep, sent heat shooting straight to my groin.
“Don’t flatter yourself.” But damn if the woman didn’t look hot in nothing but cotton and a bad attitude. Like some kind of sexy, grumpy goddess who’d just rolled out of bed.
The thought of her actually rolling out ofmybed, all warm and sleepy and naked, hit me like an ice-bucket challenge. I shifted in my chair, grateful the table hid my body’s immediate and enthusiastic response to that particular mental image.
She reached for the cabinet where she kept her favorite mug. The one with the little cat on it. The one I’d moved to thetopshelf this morning as part of my multi-pronged prank strategy.
“Where’s my …”
Her frustrated eyes narrowed at it, and then with a huff, she stretched up on her tiptoes, trying to reach the higher shelf. And as she did, two things became apparent:
First, her tank top rode up to reveal skin on her lower back that made me lose complete focus. I had to clear my throat to remind myself to pay attention. Second, it was clear I’d moved the mug too high for her to reach.
Like a whipped puppy, I found myself standing up.
“Here, let me.” I was up and behind her before I could think twice, my chest pressing against her back as I reached over her head for the mug. My other hand automatically settled on her hip.
The contact sent lava coursing through my body, and any doubt she felt it, too, was answered when she went completely still beneath my touch. Hell, we both stilled. To the point that I could feel the rise and fall of her breathing.
We were alone. No cameras, no audience, no reason to sell anything to anyone. But here I was, touching her like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The hand on her hip seemed to have developed a mind of its own, my thumb tracing small circles through the thin cotton. The movement was unconscious and instinctive, like I’d done it a thousand times before. Like some part of me had memorized the shape of her without my permission.
That thought stopped me cold, as if I’d stepped off a cliff I hadn’t seen coming.
I jerked back, nearly knocking over the mug as I set it down, putting distance between us before I could think too hard about how much I didn’t want to.
“There you go.”
The tension stretched between us, thick and charged, until she finally moved to the side to make her coffee and I retreated to my seat, trying to pretend my hands weren’t almost shaking.
And that my mouth wasn’t hitching up, savoring every inch of her body. And sass.
Thankfully, her supreme resting grumpy face reminded me to get my head out of the gutter and back into the game.
She poured her coffee and got to work, adding what I knew was an insane amount of “sugar” to the liquid.
Oh, this is going to be so good.
I watched her measure out not one, not two, but three heaping spoonfuls of salt. My inner twelve-year-old was practically cackling with glee.
“We’re not going to suddenly be nice to each other just because your stupid move put us in danger,” she said, not looking at me as she stirred with mechanical precision.
“Back to blaming me for your mistakes, I see.” I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning. “I think there’s a term for that.” I snapped my fingers. “Narcissism.”
This time, she full-on glowered at me as she retrieved oat milk from the refrigerator. The woman was a creature of absolute habit. Always the same amount of milk, always stirred clockwise exactly seven times. When she bent over to put the carton back, I caught a glimpse of smooth thigh and had to grip my phone tighter to keep from making some kind of embarrassing noise.
Any second now …
“Stop. Staring.”
