“Look forward to that,” I mumbled.
“Now I’m going to make you breakfast.”
I frowned and asked, “Whose apartment is this?”
“Yours,” he answered, still smiling.
“So rules are, I have a drama, the morning after, you canmake me breakfast.I don’t have a drama, which, honey bunches of oats, I’mhopin’ to be drama-free for a good long while, I makebreakfast.Comprende?”
I knew what I was saying.
But more,heknew it.
And he liked it.
A whole lot.
“Deal,” he replied, eyes still twinkling.
“Do you like pancakes?”I asked.
“Yes,” he answered.
I squinted at him.“Got a load of your six-pack, sugar.”
And I had.His chest and stomach were better than his back.Well, not really, it was just that I didn’t mind losing the sight of his backif I had his chest and abs to look at.Or his shoulders.Or his face.
“Daisy.”
On my name, he sounded like he was laughing.
I stopped thinking about his chest (and other things) andfocused on him.
Yep.
Laughing.
Pull yourself together, girl!
“Sorry,” I muttered then rallied.“So, if I make youpancakes, will your body rebel and I’ll have to take you to the hospital?Orwill you have to eat nothing but celery for two weeks to make up for it?”
“I cooked in your kitchen, honey,” he reminded me.“I didn’tnotice many healthy options.”
“I’m Southern.If it isn’t fried, griddled, or grilled, it’sgrilled, griddled, or fried.We might get up to someboilin’,but only if it’s crawfish, lobster, or shrimp, and I don’t have none of that.”I hesitated, making a mental grocery list before I concluded, “Right now.”
“I’m thinking I’ll have to add another hour to myworkoutevery day if you’re doing the cooking.”
My eyes got big.
“You work outevery day?”
His body shook against mine with his laughter and his wordshook with it too, “Yes.”
“That explains it,” I muttered.
“Daisy?”
I focused again on him and not the delicious vision of himworking out.
