That was how it worked, right? I’d seen David Attenborough documentaries.
I strode into the kitchen to find Dane drinking his morning matcha.
“What are you doing?” I looked accusingly at the French press on the counter next to him, wherein the coffee that smelled like pure liquid heaven could be seen doing its steeping thing.
“Making you coffee,” he said.
I went over to the French press, pulled out the plunger thing and dumped the coffee out into the sink. I flipped the garburator on and the satisfying whir of metal blades emulsifying coffee soothed me.
When I turned back to Dane, he looked mildly perplexed but amused.
I pointed at the glass mug next to him with the angel’s cloud of foam inside. “What is that?”
“It’s foamed milk for your—”
I dumped it down the drain.
“—latte.”
I set the empty mug on the counter and we stared at each other for a long-ass minute.
“If you didn’t want coffee,” he said lazily, “you could’ve just said so.”
“That,” I said, pointing at the sink, “was power coffee, and you know it.”
He rolled his eyes and sipped his matcha again.
Which was when I really noticed his amazing, sexy bed hair, casually finger combed. And his shirtlessness. And the way he was leaning, relaxed, against the counter in a pair of comfy sweatpants that barely clung to his hips, like they were a size too large and perfect for a morning on the couch.
He hadn’t even gotten properly dressed.
This was the only morning since I’d moved in here that he attempted to make me coffee in the morning. And didn’t immediately get dressed in a suit to start his day. It was a fucking Tuesday. We were both supposed to be getting ready for work.
Come to think of it, where was all the staff? They seemed to be around when we needed them, but nowhere to be seen when Dane wanted me alone. It was incredibly convenient, but right now, it was annoying me.
Christ, he wasn’t thinking about cuddling me on the couch, was he? Because that’s sure as hell what he looked like right now—a man who was about to park himself on the couch and invite his woman to join him to read the morning paper and swap sections over coffee.
“I am not your girlfriend.” It fell out of my mouth.
“What?” He put his tea down.
“I am not going to cuddle with you.”
His eyes twitched a little. “Cuddle?”
“You’re wearing sweatpants.” My eyes raked over his naked torso… the fantastic sculpted chest and abs that begged to be licked. “Nothing but sweatpants.”
He glanced down at himself. “You don’t like sweatpants?”
“No,” I said, deciding on the spot that I most definitely did not like sweatpants and the comfort they implied in this situation.
Yes, we’d slept in the same bed last night, naked. And yes, it was too close for comfort. But it was late, we were both spent after all the floor sex—and the shower sex that followed—and the bed was, you know, handy.
This was a whole other level of intimacy.
Dane pushed off the counter and strolled toward me. I backed up against the island.
“If you don’t like sweats,” he said, “what do you like?”
