She followed the kitchen noises, moving around one of the Grecian pillars and down the hallway toward the back of the house. Linx chilled at the eat-in table, feet propped up on a chair, swiping at the screen of his phone.
She gulped.
Oh, hell…He hadn’t shaved, so he had an overnight amount of scruff. She liked him bearded, loved his face when he was clean shaven, but the little bit of stubble was officially her favorite. He’d pulled his long hair into another man bun that should not have made her head fuzzy—yet it did. Those were great, but they weren’t the best part. The best part was that Linx wore glasses.
Glasses.
Thick, black-rimmed glasses.
Holy. Hell.
“Sleep well?” he asked, glancing from his screen. He asked, but his eyes danced like he already knew the answer.
Because he did bloody well know the answer. He knew the black magic of that bed.
“You know I did.” She sauntered toward a stack of pancakes on a white plate near the sink. His kitchen, like the rest of the house, was spacious, ornate, and didn’t match him at all. White cabinetry, cream colored stone countertops, and off-white curtains. If there was a shade of white, this kitchen had it going on. It would’ve been perfect for a magazine spread, but in person it seemed like all personality had been sucked out of the room to make room for a whole lot of expensive nothing.
“Are these for anyone?” she asked.
“For you.” He glanced up from his phone. “If you’d like them. They’re the protein kind—beware. They’re healthy.”
“Do they taste good?” she asked, nudging one with her fingertip. It bounced back from the pressure like a normal-enough pancake.
“I like ’em.” He lifted a black mug to his lips. “There’s coffee, too.”
She plated a couple, adding a little of the raspberry sauce in the bowl beside the plate.
“How long have you been up?” she asked.
He kicked back, just…watching her in his kitchen. She wished that felt creepy, but it didn’t. It felt…kinda nice. Like he was truly interested in what she would do and how.
“Not long.” He went back to sipping from his mug. “Maybe an hour? I usually stay up late and sleep all morning, anyway. Morning is not my favorite time.”
“Why?”
“Mornings are for hangovers. Best to just sleep through them.”
She’d believe that if he’d had anything to drink the night before. She knew all he had was ginger ale with a beer facade.
“You wear glasses,” she said, instead of quizzing him about non-existent hangovers. Her abrupt change of subject sounded like an accusation, which wasn’t her intention. Not when he’d given her the best sleep of her life, pancakes, coffee, and a toothbrush.
He shifted in his seat. “I do.”
She said nothing because she liked to think she’d followed Dimefront enough to know if one of them had vision issues. Surely, at some point, one of the paparazzi would’ve caught a picture of him in glasses. She flitted through her memory banks. Nope, she’d seen no photos of him with anything other than the occasional sunglasses.
They stared at each other for a long beat.
Then he smiled. “I wear contacts most of the time.”
“You buy makeup remover at Sephora and mattresses that cost nine thousand dollars.” There it was again, that stupid accusation in her tone. She knew better than this. Understood how to monitor her tone. What was wrong with her? Something about Linx was seriously wrecking her ability to self-monitor.
Also, yes, she’d totally looked up the mattress to see about getting one for herself. The cost, however, put a damper on the prospect of buying one.
He smiled wider, teeth and everything. Like he was totally digging this conversation. “Where are you going with this?”
“Why don’t you have surgery? That way you never have to deal with glasses and contacts.” That’s what she’d do if she had as much money as Linx. His eyes continued to dance, but he frowned just a touch.
“They cut your eyeball with a laser.” He curled his top lip. Shivered. “That’s not happening to me.”
