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“Don’t worry. I’ll be out of your hair just as soon as I find my clothes.”
And my dignity. I was pretty sure it was lying next to the suit in my apartment.
“Eat some breakfast, and stop talking like I’m kicking you out of my bed.” Deadeye sat next to me, then handed me a cup of coffee from a tray of food. Actual food. French toast, fluffy scrambled eggs, and bacon.
“I threw myself at you.” I took the cup, thankful for the warmth. “I could’ve at least shown a little restraint instead of acting like I had five seconds to live if you didn’t insert your tab into my slot.”
I sipped the coffee just to shut my panicked mouth. Ooh, this coffee was good. Now I was drinking to bring my brain back online. I doubted it would help, but I was a hopeful idiot.
“You were perfect as fuck.” He kissed the side of my neck, just below my ear. Even if he was lying, his delivery had my painted toes curling.
“You don’t think I’m a slut?”
“I think you knew what you wanted and went for it.” Deadeye picked up his own mug of coffee. “Better than trying to pry it out of you. I like a guy who doesn’t hesitate.”
“Here’s to no brakes or brains.” I clinked our mugs together. “Horny over hesitation.”
Deadeye chuckled. “You’re one of a kind, beautiful.”
He’d said it as a compliment instead of an insult. Very refreshing. I could get used to his praise after a lifetime of criticism.
I sat up when he grabbed the tray and set it on the bed.
“Drift?”
“All me this morning, though Drift had a cow when I left the kitchen a mess. You might have to sneak me out of here.”
“I’ll hide you under my skirt.” I moaned at how good the French toast tasted. There was even powdered sugar and sliced strawberries on top.
“This is obscenely delicious,” I said around another mouthful of French toast. The powdered sugar dusted my lips, and I licked it off, not wanting to waste any of it. “Did you actually make this batter from scratch?”
Deadeye settled back against the headboard, his own plate balanced on one knee. The sheet pooled around his waist, leaving his torso bare in the morning light. I forced myself to focus on the food instead of the miles of tanned skin currently on display or I might grab the syrup and turn him into breakfast instead.
“Secret recipe,” he said.
“Whose secret?”
“My grandmother’s.”
I paused with the fork halfway to my mouth. “You have a grandmother who gave you a secret French toast recipe?”
Why was that the sweetest thing I’d ever heard?
“She gave me a lot of recipes.” He cut into his eggs with the side of his fork. “I don’t use most of them, but the French toast stuck.”
The image of a tiny grandmother teaching a young Deadeye how to whisk eggs and sprinkle cinnamon lodged itself in my head. I stabbed another piece of toast and shoved it into my mouth before I could say something embarrassing about how adorable that was.
He watched me eat with an expression that hovered somewhere between amused and satisfied. His hair hung loose around his shoulders, still mussed from sleep, and my fingers tingled to run through the wavy strands.
“You’re staring,” he said.
“You’re eating like you haven’t seen food in days.” Nice lie. Great way to build trust. Shut up, brain. I’m not fully awake. Fuck, now I was lying to myself. I needed to go back to sleep and start over.
He just gave me a look like he knew I was full of shit.
“Fine. I haven’t seen food this good in hours.” I gestured at the tray with my fork. “My culinary repertoire consists of crackers, cheese that’s on the edge of expiration, and questionable milk.”
“Then I’ll have to feed you more often.”
