I point at him accusingly. “You were supposed to be gone longer.”
“I brought coffee.”
He lifts the tray slightly as proof.
I stare at the cups.
Then at him.
“That is an annoyingly strong defence.”
“I thought so.”
He pushes off the wall and walks to the open plan kitchen.
I become acutely aware of several things at once.
That I am barefoot.
That I am wearing his shirt and only my boxers.
And that he is looking at me in a way that makes all of that feel significantly more noticeable.
He sets the coffees down on the island.
“Two cappuccinos,” he says. “But I can also boil the kettle… in case you are one of those.”
I blink. “One of those?”
“Tea loyalists.”
I put a hand to my chest. “I am wounded by the assumption.”
“So coffee, then.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
There’s a beat as his gaze moves over the counters.
The bags.
The trays.
The spread of breakfast.
His eyebrows lift slightly.
“You ordered half a supermarket.”
“Your cupboards were bleak.”
“I usually go out for breakfast.”
“Seeing as wearing boxers in public is generally frowned upon, I prefer eating in.”
That gets a proper laugh out of him.
