“You must be bored,” he said, his voice rough with sleep, “if you’re watching me sleep.”
Then his eyes went wide.
He covered his mouth with his hand and launched himself out of bed, stumbling toward the bathroom in his boxers.
“Chase?”
“I’m so sorry,” he called from the bathroom, his voice muffled. “My breath is a crime against humanity. It might even be a war crime. Don’t smell me. Don’t come near me.”
I heard water running, then aggressive tooth brushing, then the sound of someone gargling mouthwash like their life depended on it.
I lay there in bed, grinning at the ceiling, desperate to free the laughter bubbling up from within. This man had been so confident and commanding the night before, reducing me to a puddle with his words and his mouth and his absolute control. Now, he was having a panic attack over morning breath.
The laugh escaped.
The bathroom door creaked opened, and Chase emerged. I could smell mint from across the bedroom. His hair looked even more ridiculous now that he’d splashed water on his face, but his almost-naked body had me forgetting his adorablebedhead.
“Okay,” he said, climbing back into bed with considerably less urgency than he’d left it. “You may now acknowledge my existence without risking imminent death, for which I would bear no legal responsibility and for which you would hold no claim or right of reprisal.”
“How very . . . lawyerly of you,” I said through a smirk. “Your breath wasn’t that bad.”
“I could still taste yesterday’s coffee and regret.”
I snort-laughed. “The coffee I get. What’s the regret?”
“Not brushing my teeth before passing out.” He settled back under the covers, close but not touching, like he was waiting for permission. “Also . . . possibly . . . asking you to stay. That was very un-me.”
“I liked un-you.”
He swallowed, looked away, then looked back into my eyes. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I reached for him, pulling him toward me. He turned so we were back in the position we’d been in most of the night with my arms around his midsection and his back against my chest. “This okay?”
“More than okay.” He relaxed into me, his hands finding mine and lacing our fingers together. “I don’t usually—I mean, I never—” He squeezed my hands. “I don’tdo sleepovers.”
“Never?”
“Never.” He blew out a sigh. “Even when I don’t work too much, I’m too tired to deal with people, but this is nice. I mean, you’re nice. I’m glad you’re here.”
“I’m glad I stayed.”
We lay there for a long moment without speaking. Our breathing somehow synced, and I tried to catalog the feeling. It wasn’t overwhelming or scary. It was just . . . good.
“What time is it?” Chase asked.
I looked back and glanced at the clock on his nightstand. “Eight-thirty.”
“Are you hungry? I owe you good coffee, and, well, we should get breakfast,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “Before I start thinking about work and ruin this.”
“Coffee is life, and breakfast sounds great.”
Twenty minutes later, both of us were showered and walking down 7th Avenue toward the French crepe place. I was dressed in yesterday’s clothes that smelled like bar smoke, while Chase had thrown on a loose-fitting T-shirt and khaki shorts.
This was the same walk we’d taken the night before, but everything looked different in daylight. Ybor was softer and less chaotic. The street cleaners had already been through, washing away the evidence of Saturday night. A few early risers were out—people walking dogs or getting their morning exercise. An old woman stopped sweeping the sidewalk in front of her house long enough to smile and wave. Tampa was friendly like that. It’s one of the many reasons I loved the place.
Chase’s hand found mine as we walked. Neither of us flinched or even acknowledged it. We just let it happen and walked on.
The crepe place was busy but not packed. Chase led us to a table by the street-facing window, the one he claimed was “his table.” He snatched the menu off the table before I could pick it up.
