Page 43 of Wicked Fortune

I hit pay dirt when I pop into the attached bath. I almost jump into the luxurious shower, but I make do with the plastic-wrapped travel toothbrush and toothpaste I find in a decorative basket. There’s a hairbrush, too, and since I don’t know where my purse is, I use it to tame the rat’s nest that is now my hair.

I head back into the bedroom, then put on the dress, buttoning it from the very top to the very bottom. I glance around for my shoes, but don’t see them. Apparently, they’re out partying with my purse.

With a quick glance toward the door, I debate my options. Walk of shame? Slipping out quietly has its appeal. No awkward small talk, no “so, what now?” moments. No, “I wanted to beg for you to keep touching me like that … and more” confessions. But my stomach growls, a sharp, insistent reminder that I haven’t eaten since last night. Or was it yesterday afternoon?

Coffee.

I need coffee.

And I need it bad enough that I’m not sneaking out. Instead, I’m pulling up my big girl panties and heading out to find that elixir of life.

And Matthew.

As I head barefoot to the door, I smooth the wrinkled dress, or try to, anyway. Then I give up and tug open the door. Immediately, I’m thrust into Foodie Heaven as the scent of frying bacon wafts around me. My stomach growls, and I follow the aroma like a cartoon character being lured by an invisible hand.

But as soon as I can see the kitchen, I stop dead in my tracks. The splendiferous aroma of bacon can’t hold a candle to what’s in front of me—Matthew at the stove, his bare back to me, a tapestry of muscles and sinew that seem more like a sculpture than a living, breathing man.

And it gets better. The gray sweats he wears hang just low enough on his hips to make my fingers itch and my mouth go dry.

I must not have been as stealthy as I’d thought, because he looks over his shoulder at me, his face shadowed by morning stubble and his hair slightly mussed. I know he’s in his late forties, but right now he looks young and eager. And—though I’m not sure how it’s possible⁠—

even more attractive.

He looks like a man just starting out and knowing full well that he’s going to take the world by storm.

“Good morning, beautiful.” He points to a place setting at the counter. “Take a seat. I’ll bring you a coffee.”

The kitchen is even more stunning in the daylight. Open and bright, with sleek countertops and massive windows that let in the morning light. The kind of space that invites you to linger.

I glance toward the H.G. Wellsian machine that had brewed coffee for us last night, but it seems to be dormant.

“I know how much coffee you drink before noon. I thought a pot would be better.” He nods to a coffee maker with so many buttons and knobs it puts my Mr. Coffee to shame. But when he brings me a cup, I can’t deny that it makes a damn good brew.

“How do you know how much coffee I drink?” I ask after my first life-giving sip.

He flashes an enigmatic grin. “I pay attention,” he says as he slides two eggs—over easy—onto a plate, then adds bacon and a piece of toast before sliding the plate in front of me.

“To my coffee intake?”

“That, and other things.”

I study him, not sure what he means. Then I glance down at my plate. “Coincidence, or did you know that eggs over easy are my fave?”

“I knew,” he says, so casually it makes me pause.

My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. “How on earth could you know that?”

He leans against the refrigerator holding a piece of bacon. “Do you remember a brunch by the Starks’ pool a few years ago? A birthday celebration for one of their kids. There were Mickey Mouse waffles.”

I smile at the memory. “Sure. Nicholas wore that silly cat costume the entire party. That kid is just too adorable.”

“He is,” Matthew says. “But it was an adorable woman who drew my attention.”

It’s still early, and I’ve not made a dent in the coffee, so I cut myself some slack for taking a moment to realize that he’s talking about me. The moment I do, though, a kickline of butterflies start dancing in my belly. And despite how the moment makes me feel—flattered, special, seen—all I manage to say is, “Oh.”

From his small smile and the gleam in his eyes, I think my response was just fine.

“I don’t remember seeing you there,” I admit, the confession surprising me. Especially since I’ve had a little lust thing going for Matthew since I met him in that bar line … which was also at the Stark House.