“All the pictures you want to show me—and any more tattoos.”
“Oh?” I say innocently, dragging my hem farther up. “You’re asking if I have more tattoos?”
His pupils swallow the rest of his eyes. “Yes.” My second alarm goes off and he snaps out of his trance.
I fumble with my phone. “Sorry. I usually set three or four different times just in case. It’s hard to get up some days.” Most days.
“Yes, it is. So let’s get to work.”
I’d rather get to showing him where the rest of my ink is. I’d like to see his horseshoe up closer. I’d like to lick it.
“You keep looking at me like that,” he says in a low voice, “and we aren’t going to get those wedding cakes made.”
We. I like the sound of that way too much. “What about your job?”
“I’m off today and tomorrow, and Lane owes me way more than one day of chores. I’ll use the bathroom after you.”
I can’t resist him anymore, and I don’t want to chase him off anyway. To keep me on task, I grab an armload of clothes. “All right. But I need to shower first. Help yourself to...” I scan my haphazard apartment. I only sleep here. The rest of my time is spent downstairs, working. He has a nice house. A deck. A backyard. I’m like a ghost in my apartment. “Uh, help yourself to some juice in the fridge. I might have some waffles in the freezer you can throw in the toaster.”
“Homemade?”
“If I want a good one, yes.” I escape into the bathroom.
I take the fastest shower of my life and get dressed. I grabbed the most atrocious clothing. My baggy shirt is an old one Clem got me for my birthday last year with a cartoon chef on it that readsI got big buns and I cannot lie. The leggings in my pile are a welcome sight. With the ovens running all day, I’m going to get hot.
Blow-drying my hair takes way too long, but I get it dry enough. Then I wrap it into a bun on top of my head, roll on a fabric headband, and look into the foggy mirror. Staring back at me is a girl who fell asleep on a guy who can give her the best orgasms of her life.
Way to go.
Yet he’s still here.
When I step out of the bathroom, I smell waffles and syrup. He’s set my small table with two plates. The brown bottle of Wisconsin maple syrup my parents brought home from their last fishing trip sits in the middle. He’s reclining against the island, shirt still off. His pants are on, but the fly hangs open, giving me a glimpse of his navy-blue underwear.
He flashes that crooked grin, and I’m ready to toss my shirt off and tell my customers I got sick and have to close for a day.
Except I have another payment to make to Dwayne.
The toaster pops, and I jump.
“Nervous?” he asks.
“It’s just weird. Having you here.” No guy has been in this space with me.
“Good or bad?”
I pretend to think. My glasses are on the nightstand, and though his face is fuzzy, I can make out a smirk. “Waking up yet again to a hot man and then he makes me breakfast?”
He grabs one of the plates for the waffles. “Technically, you made breakfast and I heated it up.”
“I haven’t had this before. It’s nice.”
His eyes darken, probably because he can read between the lines after our date at the bar. I was taken advantage of, but Cruz is caring for me. “I’m gonna be a lot more than nice to you. I just have to run home and change after I shower.”
“Worried I’m going to kick you out for wearing day-old clothing?” I’m teasing, but I catch the way he smothers a wince. “Are you really worried?”
“I don’t like wearing dirty clothes.”
“But they’re not dirty.” I don’t have to see his shirt to know that it looks no different than last night. His jeans don’t have a speck of dust on them and hardly any wrinkles.
