That might be where we’re headed.
“So I’ll get my clothes and head out,” I say to Fletcher. “Thanks for a lovely evening. Good luck with training today.”
“You want breakfast?” he asks.
“Oh, no, I live on mortification and discomfort most mornings. I’m good.”
His father snorts into a coffee mug.
Coffee.
“My coffee’s better than my bed,” Fletcher says quickly.
The motherfucking bastard is reading my mind and taking it to the next level without having to pause to analyze if he’s reading my facial expression right.
Also, if his coffee is better than his bed, I absolutely cannot stay here and drink it. “Can I get some to go?”
“No.”
“I give you clotted cream and a tiara, and this is the thanks I get?”
He smiles. “Yep. How do you take your eggs?”
“Spicy. Sort of like me in the mornings before coffee.”
His father snorts into his coffee mug again while he carries a plate of over-easy eggs around the other side of the island and sits two stools down from me.
Fletcher’s eyelid twitches while he grabs a treat and tosses it across the condo, sending Sweet Pea on a mission to chase it down. Her little feet slap against the wood floor until she reaches the rug in the living room.
And my brain catches up.
General.
Stay for breakfast.
The tension.
How did I not notice the tension?
Fletcher doesn’t want to be alone with his father.
Fine.
Fine.
I can do one more little thing for him.
I slide onto the stool beside General Daniel and level Fletcher with a look that I hope tells him I know exactly what’s going on, and if he wants any more Goldie in his bed before I leave, he owes me another story about his personal life.
We’re gonna be a lot easier on him than that, my vagina and clit and ovaries chime in together.
Traitors.
“Salsa spicy or hot sauce spicy?” Fletcher asks.
“Whatever you can handle, I’m sure I can handle too.”
His lips twist, and I’m pretty sure that’s somegame onamusement. But he’s stifling it.
