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I glance down at the black shirt with the logo of a band I used to listen to in high school. “What?”
“Turn around?” Her finger spins in the air.
I comply, doing a slow turn.
She sighs. “That’s a tour shirt from last year. You don’t still love their music, do you?”
“Hey, now.” I scowl. “Do you see me hating on your taste in music?”
She seats herself in a chair. “I happen to have impeccable taste in music.”
“As do I.” I lean my hand on the back of my chair.
She gives me a raised brow. “You have questionable taste in music and clothing.”
I glance down at the jeans I’m wearing. “What the fuck is wrong with my clothes?”
Narrowing her eyes, she leans back. “The jeans are perfect. I’d lose the shirt.”
I drop both hands to the bottom hem of my shirt. “I’ll lose it right here.”
“You’ll get me a coffee first. Then we’ll negotiate you losing the shirt.”
I swallow. “Deal. It’s good to have you back in Manhattan.”
Her eyes meet mine. “It’s good to be back.”
***
An hour later, as we settle next to each other on my couch, I look over at Eden. “I didn’t handle our conversation about custody in the Alcester case as tactfully as I could have. I fucked that up.”
“You did fuck that up.”
I like that she calls me on it. I love that she’s ready to go head-to-head with me.
“Judge Mycella will determine what is best for the girls.” She purses her lips. “You and I are going to discuss what it will take for me to get you out of that T-shirt.”
I slip it over my head and toss it behind me in one fell swoop.
She laughs so loud that I can’t help but join in.
“Let’s talk about what it will take to get you out of that shirt.” I look down at the front of the blouse she’s wearing. “The jeans too.”
She slides to her feet. “This shirt?”
I nod. “What can I do to make you take it off for me?”
Her fingers start to unbutton the blouse. “Does the breakfast for dinner place deliver?”
I fucking love that she calls it that. “They do.”
“I want you to order food from there an hour from now.”
I’m spellbound as she slips the blouse off, revealing a soft pink bra underneath. “An hour? You’re sure?”
Her gaze drops to the front of my jeans. I’m hard and aching. “Two hours?”
“Two hours,” I agree with a nod of my head. “What else?”
