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And to think she’d thought their first morning-after had been the most awkward moment in her life... Hello, awkward times a thousand.
He switched off the heat under the pan and slid the pancake he’d been cooking onto the pile warming on the hot plate. ‘Grab a seat,’ he said, nodding at the breakfast bar.
And she noticed the neatly prepared place-settings—knives, forks, plates, rolled napkins, glasses of orange juice, butter on a dish and a bottle of maple syrup.
Had he been waiting for her to wake up? Had he cooked breakfast especially for her? Why did the thought make the boulder in her throat swell to asteroid proportions?
Luke Broussard as an angry, demanding jerk was manageable.
Luke Broussard as a good guy was catastrophic.
‘Thank you,’ she managed, as she perched on one of the stools.
With the sizzle of frying pancakes no longer filling the silence he had to be able to hear her stomach—which was so empty it was practically inside out—doing its best mountain lion impression, but he didn’t comment as he brought the loaded plate to the table.
‘I’m famished,’ she said, just to make him aware that she appreciated the effort.
‘Yeah, I can tell,’ he said, the rueful quirk of his mouth doing nothing to mitigate her embarrassment.
Hadn’t she devoured those firm, sensual lips last night, like a starving woman?
That would be a yes.
He served himself a stack of expertly cooked pancakes, added a slab of butter, then doused them in a lake of syrup. ‘Dig in before they get cold,’ he prompted.
She didn’t need any more encouragement.
At least if they were eating she wouldn’t have to speak... Which was good, because she still did not have a single clue what to say about last night.
She concentrated on helping herself to three pancakes, swirling syrup over every inch of them, then slicing off a hefty triangle.
A low moan escaped her as the sinfully delicious combination of fluffy pancake, salty butter and sugary syrup melted in her mouth.
‘Bon?’ he asked, the quirk of his lips now a definite smile.
She nodded enthusiastically. ‘Delicious,’ she said, then covered her mouth, which was still full of pancake.
He gave a low chuckle and she set about demolishing her stack and filling the empty void in her stomach.
Five minutes later she placed her knife and fork across her plate, her belly so full she was surprised it hadn’t burst. She raised her gaze to find him watching her. He was leaning back on his stool, his empty plate in front of him. Apparently he’d finished a while ago.
The colour leapt into her cheeks on cue.
Yo, awkward—how about company?
‘Sorry, you must think I’m an absolute pig,’ she said.
His eyebrow quirked, but then he smiled. One of those lazy, easy-going smiles that filled his emerald gaze with heat an
d approval. She recognised that smile because it was exactly the same smile he’d treated her to so many times on their first night—accepting, appreciative, impressed, aroused—before their first morning-after.
She swallowed, brutally aware of the effect that smile could still have on her as the warm glow—rich and full and misguided—shimmered right down to her toes.
‘Come here,’ he said, his gaze drifting to her mouth as he beckoned her towards him with his index finger.
She leant forward without thinking, and he glided his fingertip under her bottom lip.
She let out a small, shocked gasp and pulled back, but it was already too late. The light, fleeting touch brought with it a barrage of sensations.
