“She barely said anything.”
“That’s how she likes people. If she didn’t, you’d know.”
“How?”
“She’d have asked you a lot of very polite questions as if you’re being interviewed for a job you didn’t apply for. Those are worse than the silence. Trust me.”
“What was she looking for?” I ask.
Lance is quiet for a moment. His face flushes slightly.
“Probably trying to figure out what took me so long to introduce someone to her,” he says.
35
George
I wake up before Lance does, mostly because his phone won’t stop buzzing against the nightstand.
We’re tangled up together under the heavy covers, legs hooked, his arm slung across my chest, my hand resting low on his back. Both of us in just boxers, skin warm from sleeping pressed together all night.
He surfaces with a groan, fumbles for the phone without opening his eyes. The second he reads the screen, his body stiffens. “Shit.” He jolts upright, but I hook an arm around his waist and pull him back down against me.
He huffs a soft laugh, then quickly leans in and presses a soft kiss right over my left pectoral, right above my heart, like a promise he’s not disappearing yet. “One second,” he murmurs against my skin and answers the phone.
“Hi, sorry, yeah—this is Lance.”
He stays half-draped over me for a little longer, voice dropping into that efficient, clipped tone I don’t have the vocabulary to follow. Numbers. Foundation contacts. Something about operating reserves that tenses his jaw. Barefoot, hair a total disaster, still wearing nothing but boxers—he somehow still looks like the one in-charge.
Ogling him, I realize this is probably what most of his mornings look like when he isn’t busy distracting me or kissing me awake.
He hangs up, drags a hand down his face, then turns and looks at me. The work face fades instantly, just for me. His eyes glow soft and warm.
“They need me for another board meeting today.” He leans down and slowly kisses me properly this time, as if he’s sorry he has to go. “Sleep in for a little while, Big Guy. I’m making breakfast.”
I grunt something that might be agreement. The clock by the wall says 7:30. I let sleep pull me back under, his kiss still warm on my chest. Rare as hell these days, but I take it.
I wake up to the smell of coffee and savory food filling the room. Sunlight spills across the big bed, warm and bright. Lance stands beside it holding a tray, looking proud but a little nervous, like he’s hoping this doesn’t fall flat.
“Morning,” he sings. “Figured you might be hungry.”
He’s wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The tray looks damn good—two plates of fluffy scrambled eggs mixed with herbs and melted cheese, thick slices of avocado, crispy bacon, fresh fruit, and two mugs of coffee steaming gently beside them.
I sit up, rubbing a hand over my face. “You made this?”
“Yeah. I’ve been…taking some lessons from Christian, our chef, since I’ve been here.” I hear a hint of pride. He sets the tray carefully across my lap, his ears going pink at the tips.
I stare at the plate. “Where’s my burnt toast and overcooked eggs?”
Lance laughs softly and sits on the edge of the bed with his own plate. “Give me some credit. I burned onlythe first batch.”
I pop a bite of eggs into my mouth. It’s light, well-seasoned, cheese melted just right. The bacon is crispy, the avocado perfectly ripe. I chew slowly, secretly enjoying the flavors.
Lance watches me, waiting. “Is it okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, gruff but honest. “Congratulations.”
His shoulders relax and a small, pleased smile breaks across his face. Warmth flutters low in my stomach. I’m a grown man in my best friend’s fancy Seattle bedroom getting served breakfast in bed, and I feel stupidly happy about it.
