He shrugged. “You like breakfast. I enjoy making you smile. Feels like a solid business plan.”
I stared at him, stunned speechless for a second too long.
“What?” he asked, playful again. “Don’t think I could rock an apron?”
“No,” I whispered. “I think you’d kill in an apron.”
He blinked, surprised at how quiet my voice had gone — and when our eyes met again, something shifted.
“I don’t know what this is,” I said, my fingers curling tighter around his. “I don’t know where it’s going. But I know I missed you. I missed… this. Us.”
Ansel’s throat worked. “You don’t have to have the answers right now, Junebug.”
“I don’t,” I whispered. “But I think I want to try.”
He leaned forward again, resting his forehead against mine. And for a second, it was just the two of us. Our breath shared. Our hands linked. Our broken, bruised hearts still beating.
Then his voice was a whisper, teasing again. “You still haven’t said the three words I’m dying to hear, though.”
My heart lurched into my throat. I pulled back an inch, cautious. “What three words?”
His grin returned. “You were right.”
“Oh myGod,” I laughed, groaning as I shoved him. “Absolutely not.”
He kissed the top of my head like he’d won anyway. “I’ll wait.”
CHAPTER 48
The drive back was quiet.
Not awkward-quiet. Not angry or unsure. Just… easy. We didn’t need to talk. It was like the space between us wasfinallysoft again.
His hand was resting on my thigh. Not possessive, not intentional. Justthere— like it belonged. Like it had always been there.
And God help me, I could barely breathe.
He was looking straight ahead, his profile bathed in early morning gold, the swollen corner of his lip tugging up just slightly. That damn cowboy smirk. That bruised mouth. That hand on my leg, like he didn’t even know what he was doing to me.
“You okay?” I asked, my voice quieter than I meant it to be.
His thumb dragged slowly across the inside of my thigh, and Isworemy heartbeat stumbled. “Now I am.”
I looked out the window before I did something stupid. Like cry. Or crawl back into his lap. We drove like that for a while — his hand burning through the fabric of my pajama pants, my pulse trying to escape through my throat.
Then, quietly — “You ever think about how weird this is?”
I blinked. “What do you mean?”
He grinned, still not looking at me. “You. Me. Jail. Breakfast. My hand on your thigh.”
I choked on a breath, heat crawling up my neck. “Subtle.”
He finally turned to look at me, all slow smile and low voice. “Wouldn’t want to scare you off again.”
“Asshole.”
“Technically, a criminal asshole.”
