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I whistle as I start the coffeepot and dig deep in the drawers for the pans I rarely use. Sure, there’s a voice in my head warning that there’s no reason to be so excited—this sex fling is going to be over tomorrow night and there will be no more lessons, no more CJ in my bed, no more waking up with her warm and delicious in my arms—but I ignore that voice.
No buzz-killing on the menu today. Just buzz-encouraging.
Which means pancakes and extra-dark French roast coffee.
Now if I can just find that pan . . .
The one you use to, um, cook things . . .
CJ
I wake up feeling like I barely survived one of the hard-core boot-camp weekends Chloe drags me to every June before bathing suit season.
I’m sore in every single one of my muscles, even ones I wasn’t aware existed until they started aching. My brain is a sluggish lump sitting heavily in my skull, refusing to think thoughts more eloquent than “Coffee now. Coffee good,” and I’m so exhausted I’m pretty sure I’m going to need assistance to drag my butt out of this heavenly soft bed.
Oh yeah . . . and I’m also completely giddy.
Graham is mine for the weekend, and I refuse to let anything get in the way of my last two days with him. Two days of Graham making me feel earth-shattering, mind-blowing, perspective-revolutionizing things that have made it abundantly clear what the fuss is all about. The fuss is about orgasms and more orgasms and yet even more orgasms delivered by a sexy-as-hell man who tells me that I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted.
I sigh as my mouth begins to water. I’m not sure if it’s memories of Graham, or the scent of vanilla and sugar in the air, but I’m suddenly starving.
After a full-body stretch, I swing my feet to the floor and pull on one of Graham’s T-shirts and a pair of panties.
I find him in the kitchen, wearing nothing but boxer briefs and a chef’s apron. Only Graham could mix adorable and sexy so well.
A skillet sizzles on the stove. Oblivious to my presence, he hustles about the kitchen, pulling items from the refrigerator, setting them on the counter, and rushing back to the stove where the sweet smell is coming from.
Pancakes?
I sneak quietly up behind him to plant my elbows on the center island. “Well, well. I didn’t know you cooked.”
Graham spins with a slightly harried smile. “Good morning, Butterfly. How did you sleep?”
“Like the dead,” I confess. “But in a good way.”
He grins. “Me too. And yes, I like to use the kitchen once a year or so, so it doesn’t feel neglected.”
“Biannually, eh?” I shake my head as I tease, “I’m thinking that doesn’t bode well for the quality of these pancakes.”
He places the bowl of batter on the counter and snatches his spatula from near the sink, where several other bowls of lumpy batter have apparently already been discarded. “You wound me, Murphy. Here I am, slaving over a hot stove to feed your sexy body pancakes and—”
“Graham, I think—”
“And you’re insulting my cooking prowess before you’ve even—”
“Graham,” I say more urgently as smoke begins to rise behind him.
“—tasted the fruits of my labor or—”
“Graham, the stove,” I break in, jabbing a finger at the skillet, where tendrils of brown smoke are quickly turning black. “Your pancakes are burning.”
Graham whirls around. “Shit.” He snatches the entire pan—charred mess and all—from the stove and practically tosses it into the sink before turning on the water, sending the smell of soggy, burning batter whooshing through the kitchen.
“Exhaust!” I hurry around the island and flip the exhaust switch. Immediately, the cloud of smoke begins to clear.
I turn to Graham, who is looking positively sheepish with his spatula in one hand and a potholder in the other, and I burst out laughing. “Give me that.” I take his spatula and use it to make shooing motions. “Make way for a professional. You clearly need a proper class in when to flip your pancake.”
His brows bob playfully up and down. “That sounds dirty. I didn’t know you wanted to flip my pancake.”
“Oh, but I do,” I say in my best sexy voice, tossing my hair over my shoulder as I grab the least offensive bowl of batter from the counter. “Get me a fresh skillet, baby. The student is about to become the teacher.”
Graham offers a snappy salute. “Yes, ma’am. One fresh skillet coming up.”
Ten minutes later, I’ve instructed my eager pupil in the proper temperature, timing, and flipping technique to achieve perfectly browned pancakes every time. And I actually manage to get a small stack of ready-to-eat hotcakes stacked on a plate next to the stove before Graham circles his arms around me, and my devotion to the curriculum begins to wander.
