I peel them off my eyeballs with a dramatic wince and hurl them into the trash with all the flair of banishing a demon. From the side pouch of my cosmetics bag, I dig out the glasses I always mean to wear before bed but never do. They’re slightly crooked from being crammed in a case too long, but they’ll do.
I take one more breath and stare at myself again, hands pressed to the edge of the counter.
“Don’t overthink it,” I whisper to the woman in the mirror. “Just… don’t.”
Because for once, there’s nothing to fix. Nothing to manage. Just a man in the kitchen who let me sleep in his arms, carried me to bed without making a thing of it, and left the morning to start gently.
And for me?
That might be scarier than anything.
The floors are warm under my feet as I tiptoe toward the kitchen, trying not to make a sound. Not sure why I’m sneaking. Maybe it’s because I don’t want to interrupt the calm, or maybe it’s because I’m hoping to catch an unfiltered, unguarded glimpse of him.
Andoh, do I.
Hex is standing at the stove, flipping pancakes with the kind of focus that suggests he takes his breakfast as serious as his bourbon. He’s shirtless and I watch as his broad back flexes with every movement. And those thick arms are some kind of walking thirst trap with a spatula. Gray sweatpants hang loose and low on his hips, just enough to make me rethink every responsible thought I’ve ever had.
Arguably the sexiest man I’ve ever seen... making pancakes.
My ovaries write a strongly worded letter to my self-control.
“Morning,” I manage, voice a little hoarse.
He glances back over his shoulder and smirks, unapologetically slow about it. “Well look who’s up. I was just about to come check if you were still breathing.”
“I didn’t want to leave the bed, in hopes you’d come back to it,” I admit, leaning on the counter, arms crossed.
I’m trying to seem chill and not like I’ve forgotten how basic motor functions work.
“You like my bed,” he says, flipping a pancake with ease. Not a question. “Where I might add, you were fully clothed and drooling on my pillow.”
I hard blink, or just shut my eyes as if it will expel the embarrassing thought. “I drooled?”
He grins. “Only a little. It was cute. You make this little sound when you’re really out. Kind of a cross between a sigh and a grumble.”
“I do not grumble in my sleep.” I inhale all the air in the room and hold it.
“You sure?” A dark eyebrow arches.
I let it out and let the embarrassment go with it.
“You’re on thin ice, Pancake Man,” I say with a wink.
He plates a cake with ease and turns, leaning a hip against the counter. “What can I say? I just happened to have all the ingredients. No whipped cream though.” He grins.That grin.The one that curves a little wickedly at the edge.
Heat rushes straight between my legs at the memory of the bar… of thelunch-that-wasn’t.
I blush. Hard. Then clench my thighs as if that will hold the wetness in.
Hex’s eyes flick down for a half second before lifting back to mine, amusement dancing at the corners where I notice the hint of a wrinkle.
“Shame,” I say, playing it cool, “whipped cream really turns things into a good time.”
His smile deepens. “Next time, I’ll plan ahead.”
I shake my head, taking a seat on a barstool and pretending not to be weak in the knees.
He tilts his head.
