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Nineteen
Cash
“Surprise,”I say, holding a coffee and a bag from the Pancake House down the street. For a split second, I wonder if she’s going to toss me out. Instead, she smiles.
“What’s this?” she asks, standing in sweatpants and a T-shirt, her hair up in a messy bun.
“Breakfast.”
It’s Sunday morning, an hour before we start our work at the shelter. I couldn’t resist sneaking in some extra time with Sage. We’ve gone for coffee one evening this week, and she swung by Midsummer Nights for a breakfast meeting the other day. But we didn’t go home together on any of those occasions, not even the night after those steamy beach kisses.
In fact, we’ve both set new ground rules, ones that neither of us are familiar with. No sex. No steamy nights. Just normal, average dating. And although I’m enjoying getting to know her, I have to say this—it sucks. The lust is getting harder and harder to ignore, and when she turns to lead me into her kitchen, the way her sweatpants cling to her ass makes it even harder to forget the fact I wasn’t cut out for this. I must have a penchant for torture to agree to this.
Two cats come crying from the living room, one the familiar hairless who I sort of owe for helping me win over Sage.
“Sorry, the place is kind of a mess. Launch is coming up, so there are samples everywhere,” she apologizes as she leads me to the kitchen island that also serves as a bar with stools. I glance around at fabrics, accessories, and even clothing strewn about. It’s chaotic but exciting, just like Sage.
“So what’s in the bag?” she asks, grinning, as she takes a seat beside me.
“Well, I remembered that you like pancakes, so that’s what I went with. I’m a terrible cook, in truth, so I let someone else make them. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Are you kidding? These are my favorites. Don’t tell Lysander, of course. The pancakes at Midsummer are good, too.”
“Trust me, I’m not confessing that I went somewhere else for breakfast today,” I grin, pulling out the platters as we sit down to eat.
We both dig in, chatting about mundane things like the weather and the news—none of which feels mundane sitting beside the sexy blonde. After a few minutes of conversation, though, she pauses and stares at me, grinning.
“What?”
“Is this the first time you’ve had breakfast with a woman without having sex the night before?”
I grin right back. “Got me there. Hell, I think this might be the first time I’ve had breakfast with a woman.”
“Stop it,” she says, shaking her head. “Really?”
“You know my rules,” I tease.
“Quite a different set of rules these days,” she says, and I wonder if I should take the lead to open up the conversation about what we’re doing here, about what we are.
I don’t. That’s a complication to deal with another time. For now, I’m just sitting back and enjoying this ride with a beautiful woman who makes me hot in all the right ways and settled in all the other right ways.
After we finish breakfast, Sage smiles. “Thanks. I could get used to this.”
“I’m sort of counting on that,” I reply.
“Are you?” she asks.
I stare at the woman who is wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt but making my heart race faster than any woman ever has. “Yeah, I think I am.”
“Good,” she replies before leaning down to pet Monticello and Barcelona.
“Your car or mine?” she asks, and I grin.
“Do you have to ask? No way I’m letting you drive me. Come on, a player has to hang on to some aspects of his masculinity.”
“I could say so much to that, but I won’t because I’m too tired to deal with the traffic anyway. Your car it is,” she says, grabbing her bag as we head down to my car, off to a day of barking dogs and meowing cats—and to keep exploring this thing between us.
