My naughty girl.
By the time we’d piled back into my bed—after a much needed sheet change, of course—it had nearly been four a.m. Which was why we were only getting around to eating breakfast now. I had even convinced her to take the morning off. It wasn’t an entire day, but it was a start.
I would take whatever she was willing to give me and happily beg for more. Because when it came to Nellie, I wanted it all.
“Give me ten minutes,” I told Sloane.
I set my coffee aside and took off for my bedroom, pausing when I reached the edge of the couch. Nellie’s brows shot up when I turned back around and pulled her into my body for a quick, searing kiss.
“So, it’s like that then?” Sloane interjected.
Nellie giggled against my lips. A slight shove to my chest had me pulling away. “Go,” she said.
I raced for the bedroom. It only took me three minutes to change, plus another three to wash my face, brush my teeth, and run a quick comb through my beard. I might have spent an extra minute moisturizing my beard, too, which was thicker than usual. Nellie hadn’t seemed to mind last night, but the beard burn on her inner thighs told a different story this morning.
I had just finished loading up my camera gear when voices filtered around the corner and into the living room.
“Things seem to be going well for you two.”
“You could say that,” Nellie said.
“I hope you know how much he means to me, how incredible he is.” Sloane’s words warmed my heart. Through all the ups and downs of the last few years, she had always been my one-woman hype team. “Seriously, you will never find a better person than Austin. He just . . . takes a while to warm up sometimes.”
Nellie’s giggle echoed through the apartment. “I’m starting to get that.”
“Just, please don’t hurt my boy.”
There was a short pause before Nellie’s reply. “He might be your boy, Sloane, but he’s my man.”
Fuck.Was it too late to cancel today’s photoshoot?
“I am?” I asked.
Nellie gasped when I rounded the corner, dropping her plate—and what was left of her sandwich—to the floor. It crashed against the tiles, fracturing into several pieces.
“Shit!” Nellie shouted.
“Just stay there a minute.” I set my camera bag aside and quickly slipped into my shoes. “Dustpan, hall closet,” I told Sloane.
“I’m on it.”
While she raced to get it, I made a beeline for the kitchen. More specifically, for the woman on the verge of tears, clawing at the hem of her shirt. Well, my shirt.
“I’m so sorry, Austin,” she said, lips trembling. “I can’t believe I did—oof.”
I scooped her up without a word and carried her out of there, depositing her back on her feet once we reached the safety of the living room.
“Don’t worry about it,” I told her, attempting to ease her worries. “It’s just a plate, and not even one of my favorites.” She didn’t look so sure, so I combed my fingers through her hair and added, “Actually, I’ve got a couple of ugly mugs my sister’s kids made me if you feel like you need to break more shit.”
Her shoulders shook with laughter. And then, almost as if a lightbulb went off, her eyes shot to mine, widening with glee.
“The Christmas Crapola.”
“The what?”
She was already halfway to the bedroom, mumbling something about a “beautiful mess” along the way. Not a minute later, she was back, only this time her arms were overflowingwith last night’s clothes. “I’ve got some calls to make,” she said, hurriedly racing for the door. “Oh, and Austin?”
“Yeah?”
