Bancroft was a smart, capable state representative running in a special election after the current guy became embroiled in a financial scandal that had rocked the state. The race had been hers to lose until a rich blowhard threw his hat into the ring, and now her poll numbers were slipping.
I could help her. IknewI could.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, even as I thought to myself, What are you doing? You only have one more week with Taylor.
I’d promised myself that I’d actually take a break for once in my goddamn life. That while I was here, I wouldn’t let work consume me the way it always did. That I’d be present.
I closed my laptop just in time for Taylor to walk through the door carrying a paper bag. His hair was damp, curling slightly at the ends, and he was wearing a Marauders t-shirt that clung to his chest in a way that was, quite frankly, obscene.
“Breakfast is served.” He set the bag down next to me and pulled out two paper bowls with plastic lids.
I dragged one toward me, examining the arrangement of berries, banana, shredded coconut, and kiwi.
“This looks healthy,” I observed, taking the spoon he offered. “Who are you and what have you done with Taylor Morrison?” I snarked.
For the past week, Taylor had eaten nothing but big, indulgent breakfasts—things like omelettes overflowing with cheese, slabs of thick-cut bacon, and sourdough toast drowning in butter.
He patted his abdomen, which—despite his eating habits—remained rock hard. “Alas, no more trash panda'ing for me. Not with the season only a few weeks away."
He came around the island and settled onto the stool next to me, digging into his breakfast bowl. “Bogart swears by these. Says their macro balance is perfect or some shit.”
“Bogart is your teammate who was blowing up your phone the other night?”
“Yeah.” He grinned around his spoon. “Massive health nut, so I figured I should probably give 'em a try."
As we ate, our knees bumping under the counter, Taylor kept stealing glances at my bowl.
“What?” I asked.
“You’re eating it in sections.”
“So?”
“So normal people mix it together,” he said, stirring what was left of his meal into an unappetizing purple glob.
“You’re such a weirdo,” I said with a grin as he reached out to steal a piece of my kiwi.
“Hey!” I smacked his hand away.
“What? You were taking too long to get to it.” He popped the fruit into his mouth, completely unrepentant.
“So what’s the plan for today?” he asked, eyeing my computer. “You’ve got work stuff, I’m guessing?”
“Some,” I admitted. “But nothing pressing. What did you have in mind?”
“Thought we could finally take that drive up the coast. We keep getting distracted.” His gaze dipped from my face, down my chest, and over my forearms, then back up to my face, catching on my mouth.
“And whose fault is that?” I asked, my voice dropping low as heat curled in my belly.
“Definitely yours," he smiled wolfishly. "But I’m not complaining.” He hooked his foot around my ankle under the counter, his grin widening.
He pushed his empty bowl away, balled up his napkin, and shot it toward the trash can, saying, “I’m gonna go shower. I’m gross.” He stood and stretched, his shirt riding up to reveal a strip of pale skin and the cut of muscle above his waistline.
He caught me staring and bent down to kiss me. “Don’t miss me too much while I'm gone.”
“Impossible.”
He paused at the bottom of the stairs, turning back to me, his face lit with that same wide grin that first caught my attention a decade ago. I was such a sucker for that grin.
