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“Are you at least wearing underwear?”
“Yes. What’s the issue?”
“I could see chest hair.”
“And what’s wrong with chest hair?”
The door opens again. “Everything.”
For the first time, I register what she’s wearing: my sweatshirt, white crew socks, and nothing else. I never thought white socks could be sexy, but I stand corrected.
“You’re not wearing pants,” I observe.
She smiles wickedly. “I’m basically covered down to my knees. What’s the issue?”
The sweatshirt she borrowed reaches just above her knees. I swallow hard at the hint of toned thighs on display. Then I smile wickedly. “Are you at least wearing underwear?”
She smirks, brushing past me. “Maybe.” She stops halfway toward the kitchen and turns to me. “Want to check?”
I stare at the few inches of thigh visible, imagine brushing my fingertips over her skin as I drag my sweatshirt up over her waist. “I would like nothing more in the world.”
The smile dies on her lips. A furious, cute blush takes over her features, and she sputters, “Okay, my bad. Let’s backpedal, we’re trying to cool things off—”
“I’m not trying to cool things off,” I protest.
“Well, I am, so I shouldn’t be bantering. Sorry, I’m a very bantery person by nature.”
“I like your being bantery,” I say. I allow myself one last peek at her legs and then force my gaze away to meet her sparkling eyes. “Should we eat before my already mediocre pancakes become inedible?”
“Your pancakes had better suck big time,” she threatens, taking a stool at the kitchen island.
I slide the plate of pancakes on the counter and take a seat next to her. “I don’t know how bad they are. Maybe add a lot of syrup?” I pass her the bottle.
Her eyes narrow, but she takes it.
Everything I say and do is a step toward either her forgiving me or her crossing me off forever, so I wait with a beating heart for her to take her first bite.
I love the way her lips purse slightly as she raises the fork to her mouth. And the way her eyes close for a second as the sugar floods her senses.
Mid-chewing, she turns to me. “These are not nearly sucky enough.”
“Sorry, I’ll do worse next time.”
She smiles, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “Do we have coffee?”
“I hope so, I’ll check.” I get up and go to the coffee maker. “You want a cup?”
“Can I have the entire pot?”
I get the beans out of a cabinet and, while I measure them out, I ask, “Trouble sleeping last night?”
If her night was anything like mine, it had to be haunted by regret and conflicting desires.
“I just had a lot to process,” she answers noncommittally.
“I see.”
I turn on the coffee maker while Blake looks around the kitchen and then fixes her gaze out the window on the pouring rain.
