I do, but first: ‘Why are you up so early?’
‘It’s race day?’ he says like that’s not why I’m here too.
‘But you’re not needed for hours.’
‘We have to drive you to Étienne’s to get you some clean clothes. As much as I’d love you to present in a Pagari polo, I don’t think it’d go down well.’
My heart tugs a little. ‘I can get a cab, you know.’
‘Denied. Now go and get dressed, it’s almost breakfast. I can’t concentrate when your arse is on show.’
Do I do as he says? Yes. But do I sashay my hips on the way? Maybe. As I swap my top for his, I conclude this is the sweetest thing any man has ever done for me. I mean, the bar’s not very high. It’s practically on the floor. But still.
‘Nice glasses,’ he murmurs with a soft smile when I return, eyes locked on the pan.
I touch them. ‘Yeah, sorry, they’re old.’
‘Donotapologise.’ Still refusing to look at me. Funny boy.
‘So what’s on the menu, Chef?’ I hop on a high stool as he turns a pancake with a slotted turner. Oh, my bad. It’s pretty obvious from this angle.
‘Lemon protein pancakes with chia blueberry compote,’ he states proudly.
I give an impressedOoo. He can cook too? Seriously, this man?
‘Don’t get too excited,’ he says. ‘Georgie made it. She dropped off the batter yesterday.’
‘I think she’s secretly in love with you, you know.’ No woman cooks for a man out of the goodness of her heart. I don’t care that she’s his performance coach, nowhere in her job description would it say ‘personal chef’.
Jack laughs so hard he starts coughing. ‘No chance of that,’ he rasps into the back of his hand. ‘She just knows I’ll eat Frosties if something healthier’s not easy to reach.’ He flips the two pancakes with impressive smoothness, and beams athimself. ‘Did you see? That was Clooney shit right there.’ And… he ruined it.
‘I’m serious!’ I counter. ‘That level of care goes way beyond her pay grade.’
‘What can I say? She’s devoted to her job. And to me not getting diabetes.’
‘Jack—’
‘We have one major thing in common,’ he says, and I arch an eyebrow. ‘We both like women.’
‘Oh.Oh.’ She really is devoted to her job then – even more than me and my binder. ‘Do you have the same type?’
He divides the pancakes between the two plates. ‘Nope.’
‘The opposite?’
‘Put it this way,’ he pushes a plate towards me, ‘you’re not her type.’
My stomach lurches and I shut it up by shovelling pancake in my mouth.
‘The papers are right about you,’ I say as he settles beside me and dollops compote in the middle of his breakfast, the next two pancakes starting to gently sizzle in the pan.
‘In what way?’
‘You are a heartbreaker.’
He smiles at his plate and starts to eat. ‘Nah.’
‘What’s your defence?’
