“Absolutely not,” she replies far more cheerfully than any not-morning person should.
I don’t know if I’m supposed to smile at that or call her on the contradiction.
Not that she’s strange.
She’s anything but strange.
She’s fucking gorgeous. And nice. And in a tough spot.
“I’m faking it until I make it,” she says.
“Oh. Coffee?”
Her face screws up into a tight ball of wrinkled angst. “I wish.”
“Should be some in that cabinet. Saw it yesterday. Unless Jessica ate all of it overnight.”
“No, it’s there. It’s just—I’m supposed to limit how much caffeine I have, and I am definitely having a cup at the office this morning. They have an espresso machine. It’s ridiculously over-the-top. But also, if it’s there, I should use it, right? So I can’t have coffee here too. I’d spend the morning talking too fast and making too many trips to the bathroom and being paranoid that I’m getting the baby addicted.”
Ah, shit.
First day jitters.
“We can get decaf.”
The way she looks at me like I’ve just solved the world’s biggest problem—it makes my dick twitch.
Knock it off, asshole, I tell myself.She’s out of our league.
And also freaking gorgeous. And barefoot with rainbow toenails. Each one a different color.
“Food,” she blurts. “I need to make you breakfast. How do you like your eggs? Do eggs sound okay? I’m having potatoes—they settle and they’re delicious, okay?—and I can make you coffee. I’ll move the beans closer to the machine before Igo. If I have time. Oh my god, I want a glass of wine. Why am I nervous? It’s a freaking favor job. It’s not a real job. Maybe that’s why I’m nervous. Everyone knows it’s a favor job. Can’t get fired when—never mind. I’ll do a good job. At least it’s with food. I?—”
“Ziggy.”
She blinks at me. Her cheeks go splotchy pink.
Swear to fuck, if I wasn’t on crutches, I’d be pulling this woman into a hug and telling her she’ll do great.
While I sniff her hair.
Is that why she always smells like honey? Is it her hair?
I think it’s her hair.
The whole kitchen is starting to smell like honey.
Subtle vanilla honey.
“Food,” she says again. This time, she turns and squats to grab the coffee beans from the cabinet by the fridge. “Go sit. No reason to be on your leg right now. Do you want coffee? You have coffee. So I assume?—”
This time, she cuts herself off with a sigh. “I’m done babbling. Would you like coffee?”
“I can get it later.”
“It’s no problem. I know how to make coffee.”
“You want to smell it?”
