Page 92 of Apparently, I’m Trouble

He raised a brow. “Oh yeah? And what are they?”

A soft guitar riff drifted into the studio, and I recognized the bars of my favorite Def Leppard song. “An appreciation for eighties rock is a bit of a must.”

He looked away and shook his head. “That isn’t a standard. That’s just good taste.”

His tone pulled a laugh right out of me. He was so grumpy in the morning, and it was hilarious. “What would you call a standard, then?”

I speared a sausage and chewed it, adjusting the towel wrap on my head as I relaxed back into the chair.

“Standards are about how you’re treated.”

I watched him as he chewed another mouthful. “And how should I expect to be treated the morning after a night of great sex?”

“You tell me.”

I frowned at him, unsure of what he wanted me to say. I took in the loaded plate in front of me, then looked over my shoulder at my spotless kitchen.

“I can tell you this–I’ve never had anyone cook breakfast for me and then leave me with nothing to clean.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to clean after me.”

I poked his hard, muscled arm. “Well, I’ll consider that my new morning-after standard, then.”

He hmphed and shook his head.

“Hey. What’s going on with you?”

He scraped eggs onto his toast. “Nothing.”

I rolled my eyes. “Right. I forgot you’ve got resting grump face.”

“I don’t have resting grump face.”

“You do at–” I glanced at the clock hanging above my sofa “–seven in the morning.”

He rolled his eyes, then shot me a smile that was so goofy, eggs flew out of my mouth. I laughed.

“Is that better?” he asked.

“You almost made me choke.”

“Twice in twenty-four hours can’t be good for you.”

Oh, cripes, he meant the blow job I gave him last night. I laughed so hard I had to push my plate away or risk wearing it.

He ate the rest of his meal with a small smile, then took both of our empty plates to the kitchen.

“I can do that,” I offered as he filled my sink with sudsy water.

He shook his head. “It’s the least I can do after–” he nudged his chin at the double bed, now perfectly made up “–that.”

I shifted in my chair, holding my towel close to me. “How long has it been for you?”

He went back to washing my dishes. “Eight years.”

My mouth dropped, and I almost bulldozed ahead without thinking, about to tell him how insane that was, when he cut in and said, “I don’t want to know how long it’s been for you.”

Confused and still a little stunned, I asked, “You’re not curious?”