“Well, that’s a relief, then,” he jokes.
He gets out of the bed and excuses himself to the bathroom. I appreciate the gentle stroke of my arm he gives me as he passes by because he knows I don’t accept morning-breath kisses.
When he comes out of the bathroom, I’ve just finished getting dressed.
“I was just going to make our coffees,” I say. Normally, after Omari spends the night, I make us both coffee in the morning and we drink them on my balcony before he heads out for work or whatever it is he does in his free time.
He grabs my waist and pushes me against my dresser, taking my lips in a fiery kiss. “Have breakfast with me.”
The words almost don’t compute in my mind.
We do dinners. We know what comes after dinner.
We don’t do breakfasts out in public. It’s too … intimate. There’s an implication that comes with it, that you’re more than what you are.
Hell, even a trip would be better than breakfast. The same rules don’t apply when you’re on vacation, and Omari and I have taken plenty of sexcations together.
We’ve enjoyed sex on a cruise ship over Caribbean waters, under the stars in Paris, and on the beaches of Saint Lucia. We’ve let our bodies do the talking after wine tours in California and after nights of dancing in Nashville.
But breakfast? In our backyard?
“Oh. I don’t know.”
“I promise.” He sticks three fingers up in a Scout’s honor. “This is not me trying to break out of the friends-with-benefits zone. I’m just hungry and don’t wanna eat breakfast alone.”
Breakfast isn’t a meal I typically eat unless my dad’s making it or it’s brunch and there are mimosas involved, so I can’t even offer to make him something here.
It’s just breakfast.Nothing more, nothing less. I don’t have my planning meeting until later, so there’s no real reason for me not to go.
“Fine. Wherever we go better have good coffee.”
“Nothing beats yours, but I think I can come close. Let’s go.” He steps back and offers me his arm, so I take it.
We end up at a place called Days of the Week Café. It’s a charming spot with picnic-style decor. The menu tells the story of how the ownerchose the name because she has seven children, each one named after a day of the week.
We order coffee and he also orders a Bloody Mary as we sit and talk. My eyes start to glaze over when he starts talking about investments, but I manage to dial back in when he brings the conversation around to his elderly Labrador retriever, Barkley. I hate to admit it, but my favorite thing about Omari might be his dog. He’s the sweetest, most gentle creature I’ve ever met. Anytime I’ve stayed over at Omari’s place, I’ve almost been tempted to stay when Barkley hobbles over to me and lays his head in my lap.
“And how is the old man?” I ask.
“Old. He’s starting to have trouble jumping on the couch.”
My hand flies up to my mouth. “Oh no!”
“Yeah. It’s okay, though. He’s hangin’ in there. I’m taking him to physical therapy.”
“Aww, good. Only the best for Sir Barkley.”
“You know, he told me to tell you he misses you.”
I look into Omari’s kind eyes. “Is that so? I didn’t realize Barkley could talk.”
He wipes the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “Oh yeah, he’s real chatty. But only with me.”
Yapper recognizes yapper, I guess. “Interesting. Well, tell Barkley I miss him too.”
Something akin to hope overwhelms his features, sparking dread in my heart. My wish is for everything to stay the same between us and I have to believe he feels that way too.
As we’re walking out of the restaurant, a familiar face comes into view. Three years of living in the same city again and I’ve never once run into Micah on the street. Why is this happening now? My desire for him to pretend he doesn’t see me is crushed when a sly smirk flashes across his face as he gets closer.
