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He squints his eyes. “Could you be a bit more specific with the question? That’s sixty hours to cover.”
“Don’t be such a lawyer. You know what I mean. Monday through Friday, you’re always downstairs at five A.M. Always. But weekends you’re not. Do you sleep in?”
His eyebrows lift. “Have you been missing me on Saturdays and Sundays, Georgiana?”
I purse my lips. “Answering the question with a question. More lawyer tricks.”
He’s lounging naked in my bed, looking far more put together than he has any right to, considering how many times we ahemed. Andrew pulls himself up against the headboard, but unfortunately one hand keeps the sheet at a decent level and prevents any interesting views.
“I relax my schedule a bit on weekends. I don’t go to the gym until at least six-thirty. Sometimes even seven.”
I stare at him, looking for the increasingly familiar signs that he’s joking. Then I crack up when I see none.
The man’s dead serious.
“Not until six-thirty, huh?” I say. “Appalling. The day’s practically wasted by then.”
“For a party girl, you’re quick to mock. I thought you’d be asleep till noon.”
I lift a shoulder. “On Saturdays, yes. Sundays, though…Sundays are brunch.”
“With Marley?” he asks.
I turn back, matching pink bra and panties in hand. “You remember my best friend’s name?”
He shrugs, looping both arms around upraised knees, the wrist of one hand held casually by the grip of the other. He looks so damn at home in my bed, it makes my knees a little weak with yearning. “I pay attention.”
“Speaking of my friends,” I say with a wince, remembering the circumstances of last night, “how upset was Hailey when you canceled the date?”
“Not. Didn’t seem that surprised either. Said to tell you hi.”
I smile. Sounds like Hailey. Although I should probably call her, make sure we’re okay.
I step into my underwear and do the awkward dance of trying to pull the panties up while still keeping the towel under my armpits. Sure, the guy’s seen it all, but not in the daylight, and a girl’s got to save some mystery.
“So where’s brunch?” he calls as I slip into the bathroom to hang up the towel and put on my bra.
“Seventy-second and Madison,” I call back.
“Would have thought you girls would be down at some trendy hot spot in the Village.”
I smile, because he knows me well. “I’m sure the girls will be. I, on the other hand, will be where I always am on Sundays at noon,” I say, plugging in my hair dryer. “At my parents’ house.”
If he replies, I don’t hear it, because I grab my round brush and turn the hair dryer on. Like I said, my hair’s my pride and joy; I can’t let it air-dry and go all frizzy on me.
Several—and I do mean several—minutes later, I use my fingers to add some extra body at the roots, then use a big curling iron to add a little more curl to the style.
I step back into the bedroom just as he walks in wearing only his briefs, with two mugs of coffee in hand. “Made some with your French press,” he says. “Hope that’s okay.”
“More than okay,” I say, reaching eagerly for the coffee.
He’s watching me with a bemused expression. “You drink it black.”
I blow some of the steam his way. “So?”
“Would have pictured you more as a flavored-creamer, extra-sprinkles kind of girl.”
“Used to be. Too many calories,” I say with a wink before turning and walking to my closet. “Gotta save room for the donuts.”
