The vendor could wait.
“Morning.” His voice was rough with sleep. Intimate enough to make her stomach flip.
“Morning.”
“You’re thinking very loudly.”
“I have a meeting at two.”
“It’s seven thirty.”
“And I need to go home, shower, change, answer seventeen emails, and pretend I didn’t spend the night doing what we did.”
His mouth found the curve of her neck. “What did we do?”
“Seriously?”
“I’m asking for specifics. For my records.”
“You have records?”
“Mental ones. I like to be thorough.”
“Oh, you were thorough.” She laughed and turned in his arms to face him.
He looked rumpled—hair a disaster, stubble darker than usual, pillow creases on one cheek. His eyes were soft, unguarded.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“You stayed.”
“You asked me to.”
“I did.” His thumb traced her jaw. “Thank you.”
“For staying?”
“For everything. For being here. For trusting me with this.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“Too much?”
“No. Just unexpected.”
“What is?”
“You. This.” She gestured vaguely at the bed, the room, the entire situation. “I dropped champagne near you weeks ago. Now I’m naked in your bed.”
“Best champagne accident of my life.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m honest.” He pulled her closer. “Stay for breakfast.”
“I have a meeting.”
