Then his whole body started shaking with laughter.
“Oh my god.” I slapped my hands over my face, mortified. “Don’t you dare.”
“Baby,” he chuckled, prying my hands away from my face. “That was the sexiest little belly growl I’ve ever heard.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” He pressed a kiss to the tip of my nose, then rolled off me and climbed out of bed in all his naked glory. “Come on. I gotta feed my woman before she gnaws my arm off.”
My woman.
I bit my lip to keep from grinning like an absolute fool.
Taking his hand, I let him pull me out of bed so we could handle our morning business before I stole one of his t-shirts and a pair of his boxers and followed him down the hallway to the kitchen of my dreams.
The kitchen I’d described to him a hundred times while we lay in the bed of his old truck, staring up at the stars and planning a future I thought had died years ago.
He’d built it anyway.
“You gonna stand there all day, or are you gonna help?” he asked, pulling open the freezer.
“Depends on what you’re making.”
He turned around, holding up a yellow box, and my heart did a somersault right there in my chest.
Eggo waffles.
“You remembered,” I chirped.
He shrugged like it was nothing, but I saw the tips of his ears go pink. “You used to eat these things by the case.”
I had. My personal chef in Nashville made me Belgian waffles from scratch with fresh berries and homemade whipped cream, and I would have traded every single one of them for an Eggo with too much butter and syrup.
“Coffee,” I announced, needing to do something before I burst into tears over toaster waffles like a crazy person. “Where do you keep the good stuff?”
“Cabinet over the pot.”
I got the coffee going while he dropped waffles into the toaster, and the whole thing was so domestic that my chest ached. This was what I’d always dreamed of. Not awards or the sold-out arenas, or my face on magazine covers.
This.
My man in a sexy pair of gray sweatpants making me Eggos in the kitchen we’d dreamed up together when we were kids.
Strong hands closed around my waist, and before I could squeak, Weston lifted me clean off my feet and deposited me on the island like I weighed nothing at all. Then he wedged himself between my thighs and rested his hands on my hips.
“Hi,” I giggled.
“Hi.” He stole a kiss. Then another. “You look good in my shirt.”
I glanced down at the Marlins tee that barely covered my ass. “I do look pretty good in it, huh?”
“Can’t argue with that.” His hands slid up under the hem, his calloused palms warm against my ribs, and I was seriously reconsidering the whole breakfast thing when the toaster popped.
He smirked at whatever he saw on my face. “Easy, killer. Food first.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“It was written all over your face.”
