His laughter is dark and velvety, and his hand doesn’t move, almost as though he’s forgotten it’s there. “Like a public service?”
“For the good of womankind.”
“I didn’t say I was a saint.”
“I think I’ve already gathered that.” I don’t think he’s forgotten he’s holding me, not as his fingers tighten and his lips slide down my neck. “Leif Whittington, Patron saint of wayward women.”
“Are you wayward, Amelia?” His lips tighten in a sucking bite, my resulting sigh a taut, needy thing. I close my eyes and swallow as his hand slides from my hip to my stomach, pulling me against him. As he sucks at my skin, blood rushes to the surface as though in greeting.
“I wasn’t. I think I might be getting there.”
“You’re so lovely to rile.” His words are a hot breath against my neck as his other hand rises, wrapping around me in a nothing short of a full body hug as he says, “Let’s get some food inside you.”
20
MIMI
Whit pullsout a chair for me and I slide a decorous hand under my butt to pull down his shirt, not wanting to repeat the stool situation. If he notices, he politely doesn’t say so.
“Champagne?” I add suddenly produces a bottle of the fancy French looking stuff.
“Let’s call it brunch rather than breakfast. No one ever complains about alcohol at brunch.” He splashes a some into a couple of tulip flutes.
“Just call me a heathen,” I say, topping mine up with orange juice. Old habits die hard. Plus, I’m not really a fan of champagne. But a mimosa… “This really is a lot of food for two people,” I murmur, shaking out my napkin with unsteady fingers.
Whit slides into his seat at the head of the table, the morning sunlight cresting his head, turning the tiny strands of gray at his temples silver. “You haven’t seen my appetite yet.”
“Haven’t I?” Reaching out, I pluck the clear top from a tub of berries, popping a raspberry between my lips.
“Tip of the iceberg,” he replies with slight narrowing of his gaze. Something tells me we’re not talking about breakfast preferences. “And stop staring at my graying hair.”
I burst out laughing. “I wasn’t!” His lips twist in some show of distrust. But that’s all it is, a show. “I think it makes you look very distinguished,” I say, trying for sincerity.
“Yes, just what every thirty-six-year-old man wants to hear.” He slides me an unimpressed look.
“You should because I dig it.”
“Oh good. I’ll take the Grecian 2000 out of my virtual shopping cart,” he deadpans as he lifts his coffee to his lips.
“Yes, do.” I catch myself the moment before I add,Daddy.
“You know, since you arrived,” he adds over the rim, “I’m sure I find another dozen every morning.”
“You don’t even have a dozen now,” I scoff. “It’s not even gray. It’s just a little salt in with the pepper.”
“Eat your breakfast,” comes his mock-stern reply.
“You must have a very sweet tooth,” I say, reaching for a miniature croissant and tearing off a chunk. “Oh, chocolate.” What’s better than a croissant? One with a chocolatey surprise.
“I might’ve gone a bit overboard,” he admits.
“Maybe you were hungry when you ordered and got a little carried away?” He watches as I pop the flaky pastry into my mouth, his eyes darkening as I cast my eyes heavenward. “Oh, my gosh, these are good.” I press my knuckle to my lips as I speak. “Sorry.” My shoulders move with a sneeze-like laugh.
“What for?”
“Speaking with my mouth full. It can’t be a good look.”
“That all depends on what you have in your mouth.”
