Page 108 of None Of Your Business

He comes over and sits beside me, close enough that our knees touch.

“I’d say you’re at a solid needs a nap and a large glass of water.”

“I can’t celebrate with a nap. I’ve sold the room.” I glance out at the walls, at the red dots on every tag. It still doesn’t feel real, even when I look straight at it.

“Okay, tell me,” he says. “How are you going to celebrate?”

“Like I always do.”

“Which is?”

“Breakfast.”

He glances at his watch. “It’s midnight.”

“Exactly.” I stretch my legs out in front of me, wiggling my toes back to life. “Breakfast always tastes better when it’s not actually breakfast.”

“So what, cereal standing over the sink at midnight?”

“God, no.” I scoff at the suggestion. “I’m doing a full stack of pancakes. It’s tradition.”

He nudges me with his shoulder. “You’re in luck.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“I make amazing pancakes.”

Something in my chest does an unhelpful little flip. “You’re going to make me pancakes?”

“Sure.” He leans back on his hands. “On one condition.”

“What is it?”

“I can’t cook shit in your tiny kitchen.”

I jab him with my elbow. “I love my little house.”

“It’s a great house. Deeply charming. Very you. But you’ve got one pan, and I’m fairly sure it’s a wok.”

“So exactly where are you planning to make these famous pancakes?”

“I have a kitchen I can actually stand in.”

I picture it before I can stop myself—his kitchen, his stove, both of us there at one in the morning—and a small, warm flare lights up low in my stomach.

I tut at him instead. “You’re just trying to get me into bed.”

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

Dr. Hudson Vaughn, human brick wall, is actually at a loss for words.

I push to my feet before he can recover. “Don’t worry, I know what you meant. I do feel sorry for you, though.”

His brows draw together. “Sorry for me? Why?”

I shrug. “There are pros to this illness I have.”

His expression turns wary.