Page 36 of Secret Paths

“You can make some, then leave… please.”

“Right.” He shifts onto his back, stretching his arms above his head. “I am being rewarded for honesty with catering duties.”

“You are being rewarded for staying in my bed without permission.”

“I had permission. You were asleep on top of me.”

“I was not.”

“You had a firm grip of my chest hair.”

I look at him.

Peter grins into the pillow.

“Coffee,” I say.

“On it.”

By the time I come downstairs, I have showered, pulled on leggings and an oversized navy jumper, and convinced myself I am not thinking about how easily I slept with Peter behind me.

He is already dressed in yesterday’s jeans and shirt, the sleeves pushed to his elbows. His shirt is buttoned correctly, which feels disappointingly competent, and he is standing in front of my open fridge with the concentration of a man reading a legal document.

“What are you doing?”

He glances over his shoulder. “Making breakfast.”

“I said coffee.”

“I have made coffee.” He points at the cafetière on the counter. “Breakfast is a bonus.”

“You have been here less than twelve hours. You do not have fridge privileges.”

Peter turns back to the shelves. “You have yoghurt, strawberries, blueberries and half a banana.”

“I also have eggs.”

“Too much responsibility for a Saturday morning.”

“It is not Saturday.”

He pauses. “Is it not?”

“It is Sunday.”

“Christ.”

“Exactly.”

He looks faintly alarmed for half a second, then relaxes. “I will still make breakfast.”

“Why?”

“Because I am here now.” He lifts the yoghurt pot. “And because this has potential.”

I pour coffee into two mugs and lean against the counter while he finds bowls. He spoons yoghurt into them, slices the banana and begins arranging the fruit with absurd concentration.

“What are you making?”