“Morning,” I whisper, tucking my face against his neck.
I still can’t get used to the way he calls mehis love.Like it’s as natural as breathing. But I know he means it. Jordan Farrington is in love with me.
And as for me... I love him too. So bad it feels like gravity. Like the universe quietly tilted overnight, and now its pull isn’t down but sideways—straight into this man’s arms.
I just haven’t said it out loud yet.
His fridge, as usual, is a crime scene.
“Jordan,” I say, staring into it like it might attack, “please explain the biology experiment happening on your bottom shelf.”
He leans against the kitchen counter. “That’s… leftover takeout.”
“It’s fuzzy.” I turn around and stare at him. “Leftover food should not have fur.”
“It adds texture.” He shrugs, entirely too casual, the gray T-shirt stretching over his chest in a way that makes my mouth go dry. I mentally kick myself and re-focus on the conversation.
Jordan grabs a mug, no doubt ready to make his decadent coffee. “Besides, why cook when they invented delivery?”
“You know some people use these things—” I lift a limp bag of wilting spinach— “to avoid heart attacks before forty.”
His gaze drops to my bare legs. I’m still wearing his T-shirt and no panties. His eyes darken, the corner of his mouth tipping up. “I’m pretty sure my heart’s going to give out because of you, not my diet.”
He obviously has no clue how close I am to jumping his bones. I turn back to the fridge before I combust. “Flattery will not save you from scurvy. Or diabetes.”
I manage to rescue some eggs, bread, and a sad-looking orange that is still, miraculously, alive. A few minutes later I have toast going, eggs scrambling in a pan, the orange massacred into segments on a plate.
Jordan pads up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist while I cook. “I like this.”
“What? Watching me single-handedly wrestle your cholesterol down?”
He rests his chin on my shoulder. “You. In my kitchen. Bossing me around.” His voice goes quiet. “Feels like a life I could get addicted to.”
Something soft and terrified flutters under my ribs. “You kind of already are addicted,” I say lightly, trying to manage my own heart. “You can’t even make toast without calling me.”
“Hey, that happened only once!”
“It took you three phone calls and a smoke alarm,” I remind him.
The phone on the counter buzzes, screen facing up.'Houston'flashes across the display.
Jordan’s body tightens around me. It’s subtle, but I feel it. His arms don’t loosen, but his jaw locks against my shoulder, the easy warmth draining out of him like someone opened a valve at his spine.
I turn my head just enough to see his face. His eyes are fixed on the phone, suddenly flat and hard.
He ignores the call.
“Work?” I ask.
“Spam,” he replies.
Liar.
I slide the eggs onto plates and face him fully, crossing my arms. “You do this thing with your jaw when you lie, you know.”
One dark brow lifts. “Do I?”
“You grind your teeth. Right here.” I tap his jaw. “And your eyes go all Wall Street murdery.”
