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Paine laughed, coming up behind me, his arm snaking around my belly as he reached for the box of pancake mix beside the bowl he used to mix it and held it up. "It's just add water and drop it into a pan. Not really a way to fuck that up. You smell good," he said, leaning down and nuzzling slightly into my neck in a way that engaged the lady bits that went to sleep unfulfilled the night before.
"Thanks," I mumbled as he reached for the spatula, scooped up the pancakes and piled them on a plate beside the stove. "What, are you feeding an army?" I asked, laughing at the massive pile of pancakes he had already made.
"Like the way your ass fills out jeans, babygirl. Want to make sure you keep it. Sit," he said, jerking his chin toward the stools at the island.
Feeling a little awkward, I followed instructions. I'd never had a man cook for me before. And, seeing as I didn't cook myself, I'd never really shared an intimate breakfast with someone before. Paine slid a plate with four pancakes in front of me then came back a minute later with utensils, syrup, and coffee.
"Eat," he said, shuffling around as he, I imagined, made himself food.
Maybe he liked the way my ass filled out my jeans, but if I kept eating junk, it was going to positively bust out of them sooner rather than later. I wasn't the kind of woman blessed with the metabolism of a fifteen year-old boy. If I didn't watch what I ate and workout, I put on weight easily, effortlessly. I made a mental note to hit the gym an extra night or two that week and dove into my pancakes. Because, well, he made them for me. No way was I rejecting them because of some ridiculous concerns about my waistline.
Paine sat down silently and started eating. Feeling uncomfortable with the silence, I reached for my coffee. "What time did you get up if you managed to get all of this done?"
"Five," he said with a shrug like that was totally normal.
"Five? Farmers aren't even up at five."
Paine gave me a sweet smile, reaching for his coffee. "I usually get up and hit the gym before I open the shop."
"Thank you for cooking," I said, reaching for another fork full. There was no way I was going to finish all of it, given how unaccustomed my stomach was to eating at all in the morning, let alone loading up on carbs and sugar.
"Why are you being weird?" he asked, making my head pop up.
"What?" Weird? I was being weird?
"Yeah, baby, weird. All awkward and shit. Not like you."
Shit. He was right. I was being awkward. That was because I felt awkward.
"Sorry. I dunno. I'm in a strange mood I guess," I said and it was mostly true.
Paine's stool scraped across the floor as he stood, coming around the end of the island toward me. I instinctively turned on my stool to face him just as both his hands moved, reaching out, and cradling my face as he lowered down toward me, his lips hitting mine hard and hungry and tasting like syrup and coffee. All of it was way too intimate and demanding for a good morning kiss. But damn if it wasn't nice. My hands went out and grabbed his hips, using them as leverage as I moved to stand, pressing my body against his. His head tilted and his tongue traced my lips until they parted, sneaking in and claiming mine as his hands left my face, pressing down my back and circling around my hips, pulling upward slightly until I was on my tiptoes. My arms went around his neck tight, holding on, as a small whimper escaped me.
At the sound, Paine slowed and stopped the kiss, pulling backward and waiting until my eyes opened. "Feel better?" he asked, eyes bright.
"Ah, I..." I stumbled, feeling all tingly and sated.
"You feel better," he said with a self-satisfied smile. "You better get going or you're gonna be late. I'll clean up and set the alarm before I leave."
"Oh, um, okay," I said, nodding as I released his neck and took a step back.
"Bring this in case you need a touch-up," he said, handing me the tube of tattoo cover-up.
"Right... thanks..."
"Go," he said with a grin.
With that, I turned to grab my purse and keys and did what he said, ignoring the voice that was telling me that interaction felt a lot like a goodbye.
I threw myself in my car and backed out, cranking up the stereo and hoping I could drown out the voice inside.
Because, even if it was goodbye, so what?
He wasn't my boyfriend. He didn't even seem like boyfriend material. Nothing about him suggested he was a relationship-type of guy. He probably got around as much as he could. I couldn't fault him for that exactly, but it said he was used to the hit-and-quit kind of situation. And while I might have had two or three affairs in my time, I was not a hit-and-quit kind of girl.
