His gaze stays on mine for a beat too long, then drops briefly to the mug in my hands. “Pen’s watching cartoons in my room. She wanted waffles.”
I blink.
There is, in fact, two waffles in the toaster oven.
Of course there is.Of course this man, after fucking me like he has arms and abs of steel, after apparently sleeping just fine through the aftermath, is being a good dad and making breakfast for his kid like nothing happened last night.
I set the mug down before I listen to that large part of myself. “We need to talk about?—”
“We’re going to a party after work.”
My mouth shuts.
He reaches for the coffee pot, tops off his own mug, and says it like he’s informing me about the weather. “Penelope’s going over to a friend’s after school. We can pick her up on the way home.”
I stare at him. “Excuse me?”
“It’s my friend’s two-year sobriety party.”
That startles me enough to cool my temper by maybe three degrees.
“His wife is hosting. It’s just a small group, people I know.”
“Okay,” I say slowly. “And why, exactly, are you telling me this like I don’t have a choice?”
His jaw shifts. “Because you’re coming.”
“You can’t just act like?—”
“You look like you didn’t sleep.”
I blink at him. “Wow. Thanks.”
“I’m serious.” His voice stays maddeningly even. “Take the day off.”
That throws me hard enough that it takes me a second to process it, but then it clicks. He’s trying to sweeten the deal, trying to smooth over what happened last night with coffee and concern and this oddly calm, dominant act.
As if being thoughtful the morning after we both fucked up is somehow going to erase it.
I fold my arms over my chest. “I have work to do.”
“I know what your schedule looks like.” He takes a sip of his coffee like this conversation is perfectly normal. “It’s easy today. You can join the meeting online from here and relax for the rest of it. Maybe take a nap.”
“So that’s your plan?” I ask, a short, disbelieving little laugh creeping out. “We’re just going to not talk about what happened, and you’re going to put me on paid bed rest because I look tired?”
His jaw tightens, just slightly, and for one split second I think maybe I’ve finally cracked that maddening composure.
“Good morning!”Dammit. Penelope, bless her, has the worst timing. She launches herself at my hip when she rounds the kitchen entryway in her Bluey pajamas. “Daddy’s making me waffles.”
“Waffles are almost done,” Grayson says, pulling down a plate from the pantry. His gaze drifts over to me again as Penny scrambles up onto one of the breakfast bar chairs. “Be ready by six tonight.”
* * *
At six on the dot, I come downstairs in the only ’nice-casual’ clothes I still own after the move out of Aaron’s — a little black tennis skirt that had been scrapped from last year’s production line, a dark grey sweater, tights, and boots. Grayson had texted me the dress code earlier.
He’s waiting by the door in those same dark slacks from this morning, a dark green sweater that does frankly ridiculous things to his eyes, and a leather jacket over the top. His gaze lifts to me, holding mine. It’s not the same kind of stare he’d leveled at me in my bedroom, but something in the way his brows lift makes my stomach flip.
“You look nice,” he says. “Less tired.”
