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When’s the last time someone made me breakfast? Libby tosses a bagel in the toaster for me once in a while, but that’s about it.
“Libby said you make eggs if you have time.” Dex frowns. “She didn’t specifyhowyou like them, though.”
“You talked to Libby?”
“Saw her before she left for school.” He easily tips my cast iron frying pan to the side as if it doesn’t weight twenty pounds, and scrapes a pile of fluffy eggs onto a plate. “I hope scrambled works for you.”
“It does.” I drift closer to the counter and rest my hand on his back. “Thank you.”
The toaster dings and two pieces of toasty peasant bread pop up. Quick as a cat, Dex yanks one out, drops it on my plate, smears butter on it and sets the other slice on top. Exactly how I would do it.
“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the table.
“Wait.” I sneak my hand under his T-shirt, grazing his warm skin.
He flinches. “Your hands are cold, woman.”
“Well, I woke up all alone.”
He turns and takes both of my hands, rubbing them between his larger, warmer ones. His amused expression slides into something more serious. “You didn’t sleep well. I wanted to have breakfast ready before you have to leave for work.”
“Will you judge me too harshly if I say I already called in sick today?” I stretch my arms over my head and yawn.
His gaze drops to the sliver of stomach bared by my shirt lifting.
“I’ve never admired you more.” He curls his arm around my waist and pulls me closer, dipping down to kiss my neck, my cheek, and finally feathers the softest kiss over my lips.
“I could get used to this.” I press my hand flat against his chest.
He pops one more kiss on my cheek, then hands me my plate.
“Since I didn’t get a lot of sleep,” I say, “I reallydofeel a bit under the weather.” I haven’t taken a sick day in years. Why do I feel so damn guilty?
“Go. Sit.” He gestures to the table with a spatula. “I’ll be right there.”
At the table, I find wedges of lemon laid out in a neat row, a glass of ice water, and a small bowl with sections of oranges and whole strawberries.
“Wow. You really dug deep in my fridge.”
“Don’t be mad.” He throws me a teasing smile. “I tossed out anything growing fur.”
Laughing, I cut my toast into eight neat little sections. “Did Libby seem okay?”
“Yeah.” He sets his plate on the table and sits next to me. “I think I annoyed her with all my questions, though.” Amusement colors his words. He seems to be more charmed than offended.
“Like what?” I bite into a piece of toast.
He glances over at my plate. The corners of his mouth curl up as he stares at my toast pieces. I push some his way. “I usually only eat one slice,” I mumble.
“Noted.” He slathers extra butter on one of the pieces and takes a big, sexy bite.
“I asked her if she needed a ride,” he finally answers. “She wasn’t sure you’d let her on my bike.”
“You’d do that?”
“What? Drop her off at school?” His eyebrows pinch together. “Yeah, if you need me to.”
“Thanks.”
