The little crease between her brows that made me want to kiss it smooth. I’d never woken up with someone like this.
“Are you hungry?” I asked, gently tracing her cheek. “You nearly died last night, I think your body’s allowed to demand pancakes.”
She peeked up at me. “You have pancakes?”
I tilted my head. “I have people who can bring pancakes.”
She made a dramatic show of thinking it over. “Tempting. What’s the catch?”
“No catch.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I’ll even let you pick the toppings.”
She narrowed her eyes like I was negotiating a dynasty merger. “Real fruit? Not the fake syrup kind?”
“Strawberries, blueberries, real maple syrup. Maybe even chocolate chips if you ask nicely.”
Her smile broke through before she could stop it.
“You’re going to spoil me,” she whispered.
“Someone should.”
I kissed her forehead once, then shifted carefully out from under her. She watched me cross the room. I pulled on a black tee and grabbed the datapad.
“Do they know not to kill me this time?”
“They do now,” I muttered, scrolling through the kitchen override list. “No nuts. No soy. No seed oils. No cross-contaminants. Nothing processed without a full trace report.”
Because last night put the fear of god in me.
She blinked. Almost looking stunned. “Are you sure you’re not the high-maintenance one?”
I came back to the bed, handed her a bottle of water, remote control, and slid in beside her again. She propped herself up against the headboard, flipping through options.
“I’ve corrupted you,” she scrolled through the options. “You, Vincent Crow, are voluntarily watching television.”
“Just Vince. And, I’m still recovering from the kiss to the chest,” I was so fucking serious about that. “You think my nervous system can handle reality TV?”
“Fine,” she landed on some kind of cooking show. “You just lay there and pretend you’re too tough for this.”
“I am.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m actively losing testosterone.”
She grinned. “You’re adorable.”
“Don’t.”
“I’m not kidding.”
“Madeline.”
“Vince.”
