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While I crack eggs into a bowl and transfer them one at a time into a measuring cup, Prince Francis, already finished with his breakfast, meows at me.
“Don’t worry, I’ll give you a bit once it’s cooked.” I pick up the second egg as he jumps onto the counter, just out of reach of my elbow.
“Can I have one too?”
The deep male voice scares the living daylights out of me and I shriek, dropping the egg on the floor in the process.
Prince Francis hisses and launches himself at Miles, who is standing in the doorway, wearing a pair of plaid pajama pants that are about six inches too short. He’s also shirtless. Gloriously shirtless.
He has a smattering of dark hair on his chest and, as I suspected, he also has defined abs. They’re not as chiseled as the ones often on the covers of my romance novels. It always makes me sad to think that those very well-defined men might miss out on delicious things like carbs and cake in order to look that way, but I’m also curious as to how much Photoshop is used to create all the contours.
Miles has nice abs, the kind I imagine are achieved by exercise. Maybe playing hockey?
I realize I’m ogling him while he struggles with Prince Francis, who has managed to land on his shoulder and bite his ear and is now scaling down the front of him like a barkless tree. Miles’s chest and shoulders are now covered with angry scratch marks, and a few on his shoulder are welling with blood.
“Oh no! I’m so sorry!” I tear a ream of paper towels and quickly run them under water, but Prince Francis is heading for the broken egg. The last thing I want is a sick kitty.
I thrust a handful of dry paper towels at Miles. “Can you cover the egg, and I’ll handle Prince Francis?”
“Yeah. For sure.” Miles takes the paper towels and waits until I’ve picked up an annoyed Prince Francis before he quickly swipes them over the broken egg and follows with the wet paper towels to get the rest of the mess.
While he dumps them in the garbage, I wash my hands, then grab new paper towels and wet those, too. I turn to face Miles.
“I didn’t mean to scare you.” His voice is gruff and raspy.
It’s also sexy.
Parts of my body that haven’t been getting a lot of attention recently react to the sound of his sleepy voice and the sight of his bare chest.
I move to stand in front of him. “Are you okay? Do we need to get your EpiPen in case?”
“My cat allergy isn’t that severe,” he assures me.
“Still. We need to disinfect those, since Prince Francis walks around in the same box he poops in.” I dab at the places on his shoulder that are bleeding with damp paper towel. There are several spots on his chest.
He exhales in a whoosh when I accidentally skim his nipple. His warm hand wraps around my wrist, and he basically yells, despite only being inches from my face, “Uh, I need to . . . uh . . . I’ll be right back!”
He spins around and rushes out of the kitchen.
“Make sure you disinfect those!” I call after him. Great, and now I’ve succeeded in making things unnecessarily uncomfortable without even trying.
Prince Francis rubs against my leg. And it isn’t until I look down that I realize I’m wearing a pair of leopard print sleep pants and a pale pink tank with leopard print lace details along the edge of the bodice. And my nipples were just saluting his nipples.
“Why do you have to make everything so awkward?” I’m not sure if I’m angry at my nipples or myself for making breakfast in my pajamas.
I leave the makings of breakfast on the counter and head upstairs, arms barred across my chest so I don’t embarrass myself or Miles more than I already have.
I’m relieved to find the hall empty, so I run back to my temporary bedroom and change into real people clothes, including a bra. I return to the kitchen before Miles. I decide my best plan is to continue making breakfast and pretend nothing happened.
Unfortunately, as soon as he appears again my mouth works before my brain. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t wearing a bra and my nipples were eyeing your nipples.” I drop my head and sigh. “Why did I have to lead with that? I’m so embarrassed.”
Miles leans against the doorjamb, one hand in his pocket. He’s wearing dress pants, a button-down, and a hockey-themed tie. His hair is neatly styled, and he looks far more edible than my cheesy eggs. He also appears to be fighting a smile. “Nipples aren’t all that concerned about who sees them; it’s just their owners who are, and it was cold in here.”
