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“Are you—” He clears his throat and shifts to his other foot. “Will you be attending the night of the event? Or—?”
I shrug. “Honestly, I don’t know. But I hope so.”
London raises an eyebrow, a hint of mischief playing in the flecks of gold light sparkling in his blue eyes.
I inhale sharply, returning my eyes to the bowl of fruit.
London shuts off the stove and begins laying out the breakfast. He grabs the bowl from me, spooning fruit onto each plate.
I stand there, my fingers drumming lightly on the counter, as I watch him move. The way the muscles of his shoulders press against his t-shirt. The way his sweatpants hang from his hips.
For a split second, I let myself imagine …
What if this were my life?
Waking up to this every morning—this warm, comforting, and safe place?
To him?
I catch myself before my thoughts spiral any deeper and shake my head, trying to rid the vision from my mind. But the seeds of those thoughts have already been sown, causing a rush of guilt.
I'm not even divorced yet, and here I am, having breakfast with London, and wondering about a life together.
London tilts his head slightly, his lips curving into a playful smirk. “Penny for your thoughts?”
“Just ... thinking about the pancakes,” I reply with a small laugh, attempting to deflect. However, I’m pretty sure my cheeks betray me. I pick up my cup of coffee, trying to hide behind it.
He raises an eyebrow, an all-knowing glint in his eyes. “Just pancakes, huh? Not imagining me as your personal chef, serving breakfast in bed every morning?”
I choke on my coffee, trying to suppress my surprised laughter. “Oh, definitely not. I mean, who would want a handsome man cooking breakfast for them every day? Psh. Definitely not me.”
He chuckles, sliding a plate filled with pancakes, fruit, and bacon in front of me. “Eat up, before you get moreimaginativeideas.”
We share a smile, but beneath it, I feel a tug—a blend of temptation, guilt, and excitement.
I take the first few bites and have to hold myself back from moaning. The breakfast isperfect. And so delicious.
The whole time, I sneak glances at him and I swear I feel him doing the same.
After taking a bite of his pancake, he says, “Remember when you used to steal bites from my plate when we were kids?”
I laugh, feigning innocence, as I press my fingertips to my chest. "Who, me? Never. I was just taste-testing. Making sure they were safe for consumption. I was obviously trying to protect you.”
He leans in playfully, his fork pointing at a piece of his bacon. "Don’t you dare try it now."
The thrill of a challenge rushes over me and I reach out, snatching the bacon with my fork just as London tries to pull his plate away.
I don’t even wait. I pop it in my mouth and moan loudly like it’s the best tasting thing I’ve ever had.
His eyes widen and his throat bobs. “You, uh—you always were a step ahead," he says, admiration—and maybe something else—reflecting back at me.
I bite my lip, dropping my gaze back to my plate.
The air between us feels charged again, so I focus on eating—quietly this time.
"Do you remember that summer we built the treehouse in your backyard?” London asks, humor painting his tone. “We thought we were brilliant architects."
I shake my head and giggle. "You mean the one that nearly fell when we tried climbing into it? Then, my dad had to get involved and fortify it so we didn’t tumble to our deaths? That one?”
