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Chapter Eight
Simon
My alarm goes off, jolting me from a delicious dream in which Alice was the star.
Dirty thoughts about a woman don’t count in dreamland, right?
Technically, it was my subconscious making it up, and I have no control over that.
But you do control how much you fantasize about her during waking hours.
The thought makes me frown, and I roll over, tapping my phone to get the alarm to cease blaring. I sit up, pulling the covers back, my skin prickling in the cold air of my bedroom.
My morning routine hasn’t changed for as long as I can remember. Wake up, work out, eat breakfast, and work. Lather, rinse, repeat. But this morning, I won’t be going in for work. I’ll be filming at my house with the woman who inspires my filthy dreams.
I scrub a hand down my face and scratch the stubble at my jawline with a yawn. I use the bathroom and brush my teeth before slipping into the athletic shorts I laid out in my chair last night and sticking my feet in my sneakers. I head downstairs, where the house is silent, which is strange. Usually, Vicky is up, making breakfast for herself, before Ivy gets up, but I walk into an empty kitchen and grab a cold bottle of water from the fridge.
Down the hall from the kitchen, I have a large room I converted into a home gym. A few pieces of weight equipment, a treadmill, and a stationary bike sit in the middle of the floor with a rack of free weights along the wall. It keeps me active, and when I need a change, I dive into the pool out back, weather permitting.
Today, the weights aren’t giving me enough of a distraction, and I cut my workout short, grabbing a towel to wipe the sweat from my forehead as I head back to the kitchen, a frustrated scowl on my face.
I stop short when I see Alice seated on a barstool, a cup of coffee in hand. Her head turns at my footsteps, and her eyes widen. I watch them trace the lines of my body—my shirtless, very sweaty body—and if it’s possible, I heat up a little bit more. Her cheeks turn a gorgeous shade of pink once she realizes what she’s done, and she averts her gaze.
“Coffee?” she asks, standing up and stepping toward the coffeemaker.
I nod once, continuing to towel off. I pull out a chair at the table and sink into it.
She sets a mug in front of me. “Do you like anything in it?”
“No, black is fine.”
“Black,” she says with a nod. “I’ll remember that.”
She returns to her barstool, and we face off across the kitchen. I should have sat next to her at the island, but I don’t think I can do close proximity yet. Not until I get these visceral reactions under control. It’s just my body reacting to the presence of a beautiful woman. Nothing out of the ordinary.
“Do you want any breakfast?”
Yes—you spread open on this table.
I scowl and then catch myself as her face morphs into a frown.
“Yeah, breakfast sounds good.” My stomach growls, as if to accentuate it, and she laughs.
“Do eggs and bacon with toast sound all right? Wait, I should check the fridge before I make any promises,” she says, hopping down from the stool and walking toward the refrigerator.
I know she will find it fully stocked. Vicky always has the groceries delivered every week, so I guess that’s something that Alice will have to take over. We need to sit down and look at the list of responsibilities. Now that I think about it, Vicky was really my housekeeper and nanny. She took care of so much that I never even considered before now.
I watch Alice as she pulls a carton of eggs and a container of bacon from the fridge. Some butter and shredded cheese follow, and the carton of milk comes next before she closes the door, places her hands on her hips, and surveys the spread. Her thin cotton shirt stretches across her chest with the action, and my eyes widen as I realize I can see the outline of her areolas.
She’s not wearing a bra.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, staring at me.
I enter panic mode. She just caught me staring at her chest.
“Nothing, just excited about eating.”
Excited? Well, yes. But not about the food.
