His voice had sleep in it, low and rough and unfair, the kind that should’ve required a permit near open flame.
I sat up and immediately remembered the T-shirt situation. The hem slid higher on my thighs. Flint’s gaze dropped for half a second before he looked at my face.
That half second did more damage than a full speech.
“Good morning,” I said, smoothing the shirt down with all the dignity available to a woman wearing another person’s cotton and very little else. “I’m going to need you to stop looking like that before I’ve had coffee.”
“Looking like what?”
“Like a man who knows exactly what happened in that bed and is being polite about it.”
His mouth moved. It wasn’t a full smile. Flint Sparks rationed smiles like they came from an emergency supply kit and we were down to the last box.
“I brought coffee.”
“I note the deflection.”
“I also brought breakfast.”
That got me moving. “Breakfast may proceed.”
He climbed the ladder one-handed, which was unnecessary and therefore rude, and handed me a mug. Real coffee, dark and hot, with just enough cream to keep it from tasting like punishment. The smell curled into the warm loft air, mixing with cedar and the faint smoky sweetness still in my hair from last night.
On the little tray tucked against his forearm sat two tin plates: thick toast, scrambled eggs, and sliced peaches glossy with honey.
“I thought you said you weren’t a chef,” I said.
“I’m not.”
“You brought me peaches in bed.”
“I own a knife.”
“That explains the slicing, not the emotional ambush.”
He set the tray between us and sat on the edge of the mattress. The bed dipped under his weight. My bare knee brushed his denim-covered thigh, and the tiny contact sent a spark through me sharp enough to make me tighten both hands around the mug.
Flint caught the movement. The man could spot sideways smoke from a ridge. My knee had no chance.
“We need to get you back before Caprice turns the meadow into a search grid,” he said.
I took a sip of coffee. “Caprice would call it a compelling behind-the-scenes segment.”
“Do they know where you went?”
“She knows I left the meadow after wrap. She doesn’t know I stayed.”
His hand stilled on the edge of the tray.
I added, “Joelle probably suspects I’m alive because my camper hasn’t exploded from neglect. Ed suspects nothing because Ed doesn’t want to know anything unless it affects battery life.”
Flint nodded once. “No one needs to know unless you want them to.”
His hand stayed on the tray, steady and open, not claiming a thing.
And somehow, that made my chest hurt more than if he’d swaggered around the cabin like last night had been a victory lap.
I set my mug on the floor beside the bed. “Is that what we’re doing?”
