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After I finished brushing my teeth and putting on a sensible dress, I padded to the living room, where I found a pile of fluffy and warm waffles stacked neatly on a plate on the coffee table.
“My God, talk about beauty and grace!” I cooed, rushing to the waffles.
I grabbed the plate and brought the waffles to my nose, sniffing. “You innocent little babies. Who put you here, in harm’s way?”
Saliva gathered in my mouth. These waffles were the real deal. Where did Riggs get them?
The bathroom door opened, and Riggs walked outside, looking twice as wicked as the treat I was holding.
“Finally, you’re up.” He ambled over to the kitchenette, where he popped open butter and chocolate syrup.
I deduced he’d bought them, since there wasn’t a weapon in the world you could threaten me with to make me willingly welcome chocolate into my home. “Hurry up, we gotta eat them before they get cold.”
“Eat them?” I gasped at the blasphemy, putting the plate down before I did something stupid. “Riggs, I can’t do back-to-back cheat days, and we already had pizza yesterday.”
“You can and you should. I checked, and there are no laws against having fun in the state of New York.” He squeezed the chocolate syrup all over the waffles. “Besides, I’ve seen you naked, so I have the authority to say you can definitely afford it.”
I felt myself blushing from head to toe.
“I’m sorry. I appreciate the gesture, but I just can’t ... Where did you even buy them?”
“Buy what?” He sat down and, using a fork and a knife, cut a huge bite of waffles and chocolate for himself.
“The waffles,” I heard myself say, my stomach grumbling loudly.
“Didn’t buy them.” He took the bite, chewing. “Made them.”
“Madethem?”
“Yup.” He popped another bite into his mouth. The bloody man was going to eat all of them before I could have a taste. “Just bought an old-school waffle maker downstairs, and the ingredients. Easy-peasy. Wanna try?” He angled a forkful of goodness my way.
I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t. But oh, I wanted to. I bit down on my lower lip.
“Nr, buh thrrr fr degestte,” I mumbled.
“Do you have that in English?” He raised his head from the HALF-EMPTY plate. I needed to work fast if I wanted a taste. “Couldn’t hear you with your tongue swimming in saliva.”
I opened my mouth begrudgingly. “No, but thank you for the gesture.”
“No prob. I figured if you ate them, I’d win brownie points for best husband, and if you didn’t, I could torture you by showing you what you were missing.”
“Knobhead,” I huffed and laughed simultaneously.
“Stuck up,” he said cheerfully, taking another bite.
This was too much. The smell. The aesthetically pleasing, golden squares. The melting butter. The chocolate. The man who ate them.
“Oh, fine!” I plopped down next to him, prying the fork from his hand savagely. “I’ll try your bloody waffles.”
He watched me intently, a smile on his face. The bastard was gloating. I was about to stab him with the very fork I’d just pried from his fingers.
I took a bite with a perfect waffle-butter-chocolate ratio, then proceeded to close my eyes and moan. This was unreal. Sweet and salty in equal measures. Still hot, crispy on the outside, and soft on the inside.
No way the man was this gorgeous, this good in bed,andknew how to make the best waffles in America. He was a weapon of mass destruction.
“This is awful,” I cried out, taking another bite.
He was full on grinning now. “Yeah, looks like you’re suffering.”
