Page 93
White tank top. Tiny sleep shorts. Her lavender-streaked hair half-fallen out of a messy bun. There was butter smeared across her forearm and fist, orange juice on her collarbone, and a streak of yolk on her left cheek that she hadn’t noticed yet.
She hadn’t heard him come in.
Cal stood in the doorway in his jeans and flannel, bare feet on the heated stone floor, and had to fight hard not to laugh. He was trembling with it.
Why the hell am I having this much fun?
Sage, on the other hand, was not having fun. She was furious at the eggs — genuinely, furious, like they’d personally betrayed her. The spatula attacked the pan with righteous conviction. He caught her muttering something that definitely included the words “fucking” and “betrayal.”
That feeling kept growing. Quieter now, and far more dangerous than the laughter. Standing here in his own kitchen, watching this beautiful, chaotic girl lose a war with his stovetop, he realized this — her — had somehow become the best part of his mornings. Maybe for longer than he’d let himself notice.
He was in significant trouble.
She turned.
Saw him.
“WHAT—” The spatula flew up defensively before she registered it was him. Her eyes widened. “What?”
“Nothing,” Cal said, keeping his voice innocent. He was barely holding in the laugh.
“Then why are you standing there like that? You’re making me nervous and—” She swung the spatula toward the juicer. “That thing is broken, by the way. One button. That’s all anyone needs. One! On. Off. That’s it. What I have over there is a stupid cockpit. I pressed three things and it just—exploded—so that’s a design flaw, that’s on you—”
“There’s a lid.”
Silence.
“There’s a—”
“Lid. Yes.”
Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh.
Her face cycled through six different emotions in four seconds. He watched every single one, keeping his own expression carefully neutral. It cost him.
“That information,” she said, cheeks burning, “would have been useful earlier.”
“You didn’t ask.”
Her face went another shade of red. Then Cal glanced down at her tank top and froze.
The white fabric was damp from the juicer explosion, now almost completely see-through. It clung to the full, soft curves of her breasts in a way that made his mouth go dry. He tried to look away. He really did.
“I didn’t—” Sage started, spatula pointed at him. “You are genuinely the most—” She stopped. Looked down. Realization hit.
Cal had been trying (and failing) to exercise discipline for the last twenty seconds.
“Cal.”
“Huh? What!?” He snapped his eyes up, looking guilty as hell.
“Are you staring at something?” she asked, voice suddenly sweet and innocent in a way that was anything but.
He cleared his throat. “Ah… no.”
“Hmm… Do I have something on my face?”
“Yolk. Left cheek.”
