"That smells delicious, I hope you don't mind sharing," she said, her voice husky with sleep.
"Always," I managed, finding my voice again. I held up the bags. "I may have gotten carried away ordering."
Vivienne's face lit up with delight. "You ordered us breakfast? That's..." She seemed to search for words. "That's incredibly thoughtful."
"I wanted to take care of you," I said simply, surprised by my own honesty.
Something soft and warm flickered across her expression. "Come here," she said, patting the bed beside her.
As I approached, she grabbed the sheet and pulled it up to cover her breasts and tuck it beneath her arms, but not before I caught another glimpse that made my mouth go dry.Focus,I told myself.Food first.
"What did you get?" Vivienne asked, making space for me on the bed.
I unpacked the containers, spreading them between us like a picnic. "Croissants, fruit, eggs Benedict, roasted coffee that's not full of sweetener and cream..." I paused, suddenly uncertain. "I hope you like French food."
"I love it," she said, reaching for a strawberry. "Though I have to warn you, I'm not very elegant when I eat in bed."
"I find that hard to believe."
She proved me wrong by immediately getting croissant crumbs on the sheets, but somehow that only made her more endearing. We ate and talked, her asking about my work, me asking about her students. She had a way of making me want to share things I usually kept private—my frustration with the superficiality of my industry, my genuine love for the craft of design, my complicated relationship with success.
"So what's your plan for today?" Vivienne asked, licking butter from her fingers in a way that made me lose my train of thought entirely.
"I..." I forced myself to focus. "I have a standing appointment. Every Sunday, I go out with some guys I served in the military with. More like brothers, though one of them just started a serious relationship, so he brings Morgan along most Sundays."
"That sounds nice," she said, and I could hear genuine warmth in her voice. "It's important to have people who knew you before you became... all this." She gestured vaguely, encompassing my wealth and status.
I nodded, surprised by her understanding. "What about you?"
"Grading papers," she said with a slight grimace. "The glamorous life of a teacher. I have about sixty essays on the Industrial Revolution to get through before class tomorrow."
"Sixty?" I felt a stab of something that might have been guilt. "That's a lot of work."
"It's what I signed up for," Vivienne said with a shrug. "Besides, some of them are actually quite good. There's always one or two that surprise me."
We finished breakfast in comfortable conversation, and I found myself reluctant to suggest we get dressed and face the day. This felt too good, too right, to end.
But something was nagging at me—a persistent discomfort I couldn't quite place. It wasn't until I shifted positions that I realized what it was. I'd slept in my gloves. All night. The leather felt wrong against my skin now, stiff and foreign after hours of wear.
I never stay over.The thought hit me with uncomfortable clarity. I had rules about these things, boundaries that kept my life compartmentalized and safe. One night, usually a hotel, always gone by morning. Clean, simple, no complications.
But here I was, having breakfast in bed with a woman who wasn't my usual type at all. Vivienne was soft where the women I usually chose were bony, genuine where they were calculating, passionate about teaching teenagers instead of climbing social ladders.
And yet she was the first person in years who'd made me want to talk about my work—really talk about it, not sell it or defend it, but share the parts of it that mattered to me.When was the last time someone had understood what I was trying to achieve? When had anyone seen past the brand to the actual craft?
"You're thinking pretty hard over there," Vivienne said, pulling me from my thoughts.
I glanced up to find her watching me with those perceptive hazel eyes. I caught her gaze flicking briefly to my hands, still covered in black leather despite the intimate setting. I saw the moment of curiosity cross her features, the slight furrow of her brow as if she wanted to ask but was holding back.
She notices everything.
"Just thinking about the day ahead," I said, which wasn't entirely untrue.
Vivienne nodded, but I could see she wasn't entirely convinced. Still, she didn't press, which only made me appreciate her more. She had the instinct to know when to push and when to let things be.
"I should clean up," I said, standing and gathering my clothes.
"Of course," Vivienne said, gesturing toward the hallway. "Feel free to use the shower, though I should warn you—you might smell like vanilla and jasmine afterwards."
