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“Hey, sexy.” Jordan held a spatula in his hand, and mouthwatering aromas filled the kitchen.
“Back at you.”
Sera eyed him; he was tousled and edible-looking. He’d donned last night’s suit pants but otherwise he was bare-chested—all rippling, lean muscle. Sera drank in the view of what was covered up during therapy.
Jordan smiled at her. “Hungry?”
How could he be so cheery so soon after sunrise? Okay, the sex had been spectacular. She felt like a well-sated cat. But still, mornings were mornings. She yawned and moved toward a cabinet to pull down a coffee mug.
“You know, I once asked if the clouds ever come out in Serenghetti Land,” she muttered. “I guess the answer is no.”
Jordan laughed. “Angel, I’m guessing I’ll always need to be the one in charge of breakfast for us.”
Retrieving her mug, she answered, “You got that right.”
And then she realized...always? She hadn’t blinked at his allusion to a next time—more than one, in fact—for them. She tested the idea and registered that it made her...happy. Butterflies-in-the-stomach happy, actually. Last night, her relationship with Jordan had taken a big step toward complicated, but right now, she wanted to shut out the world for a little bit longer and just experience the moment.
“Grumpy in the morning?”
“Yes.” Well, until seconds ago, anyway. She poured herself a cup of dark brew that he’d had ready for her.
“I’ll file that information away for future reference.”
“I bet you’ve always dated the kind of woman who sleeps in her makeup so she can wake up camera-ready,” she grumbled before savoring her first sip of coffee.
Jordan just smiled again. “Don’t worry. You’re cute in the morning—”
“Only in the morning?”
“—in a tussled-in-the-sheets kind of way.”
“Hmm.” Thanks to him. She looked at the stove. “What are you making?”
“The Serenghetti Brothers Frittata.”
“So you do cook.”
“Breakfast, sometimes. I think I mentioned it before. Since I often slept in, it was the one meal where Mom wasn’t ruling the kitchen.”
“Late-night carousing, I bet. I’m guessing you were having a lot of breakfasts later than everyone else. Closer to noon, maybe?”
He tossed her a meaningful look. “I’m not going to incriminate myself.”
“Of course.”
“When I started living on my own, making breakfast became a survival skill.”
“Along with getting the right meal partner?”
“Jealous?”
“Please.”
He looked boyishly charmed by her denial. “Something tells me you’re going to be my best...meal partner ever.”
“Oh?” She kept her tone casual. “Well, you’re about to find out.”
In fact, his frittata was delicious. And afterward, not least because it was her kitchen, she took charge of cleanup, while he headed to the shower. Wiping down the kitchen counter minutes later, she heard the water running and gave in to the urge she’d been resisting since she woke up.
