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“Well, you better find the energy, Mr. Kensington. Because there is no way I’m staying at your house.”
Cole rolled his eyes. “You are. Because I need you somewhere safe until we figure out what’s going on. And because we have an 8 AM meeting with Flint right here.”
Joey opened her mouth to object again. Then closed it. She inhaled, planning her rebuttal. Then sagged.
“Fine. But just for tonight.”
“We’ll see,” was Cole’s response. She felt a bit like a five-year-old being placated for the moment to think he’d get what he wanted later. If Cole wanted to defer the disagreement to later, she was fine with that.
It seemed only a few minutes later that Joey woke up, surrounded by the luxuriously decadent guest bed. She hadn’t spent a lot of time studying her surroundings as Cole led her to the guest suite, but through the lens of her weariness, the home seemed surprisingly modest, not to mention inviting and cozy. Cole had no right being soft and inviting. She needed him to be detached, cool, and untouchable. She’d expected a cold, modern penthouse with stark lines and impractical furniture designed to be art, valuing form over function.
But this bed was definitely hitting function on the nose. She hadn’t slept that well in years. The sun was just beginning to creep through the window behind gauzy curtains. She stretched, groaning as her muscles protested the movement.
Cole was the most prepared host she’d ever seen, and she slipped a robe over the pajamas that Cole had pulled from the guest closet last night. It made staying here seem more like a vacation than an emergency. In the past, crashing at a friend’s house meant sleeping in her jeans on a futon in the living room.
Here, it was a thousand thread count sheets, silk pajamas, and a cotton robe. Getting too used to this would be dangerous.
She tiptoed out of the guest suite and down the stairs toward her vague recollection of the kitchen. Coffee sounded heavenly. What she found when she entered the kitchen made her steps falter along with her heartbeat.
Cole Kensington, one of the most influential men in the country with a bank account that rivaled that of a small kingdom and topped every list of eligible bachelors. That Cole Kensington? He was in flannel pajama pants, slippers, and a deliciously fitted white T-shirt. His hair was rumpled, and he wore black-framed glasses she’d never seen before in any picture. And he was cracking an egg into a pan.
Her hand found her necklace. Oh, what a sight.
She cleared her throat and continued down the steps, determined to pretend she was unaffected.
He glanced up and smiled. “Good morning,” he said. “Would you like some coffee?”
“Is social media a giant grab for personal information by evil corporations?”
He blinked in response and shook his head. “What?”
Joey chuckled and translated her response. “Yes. I’d love some coffee.”
“Right.”
She took a seat at the bar across the counter from the stove and pretended not to watch as he reached for a mug from an upper cabinet, his muscles shifting under his shirt. He filled it and set it in front of her, then slid a bowl with sugar and a carton of cream. Joey wasn’t sure why she was surprised that it was the same brand of half-and-half she had in her own fridge. What did she expect? It wasn’t as if billionaires had to import every ingredient just because they could.
She put her nose over the mug and inhaled deeply before taking a sip. She nearly moaned in appreciation as the smooth, rich flavor hit her tongue. He might not go the extra mile for the cream, but the coffee? It was top-notch.
Joey turned her gaze back to Cole.
“What would you like in your omelet?”
She looked at the bowls of ingredients. “No mushrooms, please. Everything else sounds good though.”
He sprinkled the rest of the ingredients onto the smooth layer of cooking eggs. “I’m impressed,” she said.
“Don’t be too impressed. I usually fumble the flip and then end up making a scramble instead of an omelet.”
She chuckled. “Either way, it tastes the same. This is way more than necessary.”
He flipped one half of the omelet over, no fumbling at all.
“Do I lose points if I admit that my housekeeper preps everything I need?” He slid the omelet onto a plate, added a piece of toast, and placed it in front of her.
“Not even a little,” she admitted.
“Oh, good,” he replied with a wink as he cracked another egg in the pan.
