“Whatever,” I mutter.
I toss my phone on the bed and stretch, reaching my arms high above my head, working out the soreness in my muscles.
I shuffle into the bathroom to pee and brush my teeth, twisting and turning as I go.
Three minutes later, I’m standing in front of the mirror, spitting toothpaste into the sink. I splash cold water on my face and assess my reflection.
I went to bed with damp hair, so it resembles something like a lion’s mane, only curlier.
I run my fingers through the roots, fluff it, and push it to one side.
It’s fine.
I head into the kitchen still in pajamas, a white tank and high-waisted women’s boxer briefs. It’s what I always sleep in. And yes, it’s basically underwear, but Matt’s still asleep.
He’s seen it before, anyway.
I just want things to feel normal.
Normal is making tea before I start thinking too hard.
The house is quiet, dark, still. I flip on the under-cabinet lights, fill the kettle, and set it on the burner.
Ten peaceful minutes later, my hands are wrapped around a warm mug. I’ve just started for the couch when Matt’s door opens.
I pause, turning toward the sound.
He’s padding down the hall in his underwear. Not a care in the world.
Oh my God.
You’d think I’d never seen a naked man before. Not only is that not true, but I’ve seenthisman naked.
A lot.
My stomach doesn’t flutter. It drops. Hard. Like my body is waking up and remembering I’m a woman standing in a kitchen with her husband.
Myhusband… who’s hot as hell.
Jesus. Be normal.
We make eye contact and he grins.
“Morning,” I say, a smile pulling at my lips as I clock his morning erection barely fading.
He walks right to me, cups my face in his hands, and presses his mouth to mine. It’s short. Soft. Sweet. Just long enough for my brain to register that his lips are on mine.
“Morning,” he murmurs as he pulls away, his voice low and rough with sleep.
I blink, stunned. “What the hell was that?”
He shrugs like it’s not a big deal. “Just making up for yesterday when you dodged my kiss. Thought I’d try it out.”
He leans back against the counter, folding his tattooed arms, smug as hell. His grandfather’s silver cross catches the light against his chest. He’s not religious, but he’s never taken it off.
“Yeah,” he adds, “I could definitely make that a regular thing. But I think you could do better next time.”
I stare at him. “I’m sorry—next time?” My eyebrow lifts. “There will be no next time.”
