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“Hell, yes.” Atlas sounded more than game and gave a happy sigh as I settled next to him, my head on his chest. “Any chance of it being a snow day?”
“Might take a literal act of God for Gabe to fully close.” Groaning, I stretched to look out the window where the snow was still coming down. “But we can probably bank on a late start if the parking lot needs plowing.”
“Come on, snow.” Pulling me back down, he buried his face in my hair. “Never wanted a blizzard so much.”
“Me either.” And I’d never wanted a man as much as Atlas. That much was certain.
Nineteen
ATLAS
Sleeping against the wall had its perks, namely getting to spoon around a warm, naked, and cuddly Zeb while my back stayed cool. Also, I was closer to the window, so I could easily check on the snow situation. A pale, gray morning peeked through Zeb’s blinds. The lack of sun was a good sign that more snow was coming, and indeed, fat flakes were continuing to lazily drift down.
However, sleeping against the wall had its downsides, namely having to scoot all the way to the bottom edge of the bed and twist up like licorice candy to slither quietly past a sleeping Zeb. After checking my phone messages along with the weather, I proceeded with my plan to make Zeb some food.
Cooking breakfast was a strange, fanciful urge. Sure, I’d dated a little here and there, but I’d never cooked for someone. The sleeping next to someone else thing was new enough, but the desire to take care of Zeb was something else entirely. And it wasn’t so much that I felt obligated to do something nice after last night’s midnight picnic and epic orgasm swap. I wanted to spoil Zeb precisely because he was perfectly capable of feeding himself and because no one else seemed to notice how hard he worked.
Zeb’s fridge held the remnants of several takeout feasts of ours, but I also found a couple of potatoes and eggs. I raided the leftovers for a small container of feta, some olives, a few herbs, and lemon wedges. The finished plates weren’t particularly social media-worthy, but they smelled good. I repurposed a baking sheet as a tray and added mugs of coffee and the last of Zeb’s juice before carrying it into the bedroom.
The door squeaked as I pushed it open, and Zeb yawned and stretched before noticing me. He blinked and brushed his hair off his forehead.
“Breakfast in bed? What did I do to earn this?”
I replied with a pointed look and raised eyebrow.
“Other than the obvious.” Rather than blushing, he let the covers fall away from his torso, revealing morning wood.
“The obvious was pretty damn amazing.” I chuckled as he covered back up and scooted over so I could arrange myself and the tray next to him. “And I figured you might have a champagne hangover.”
“A little one.” He groaned and then helped himself to a mug of coffee. “What time is it anyway?”
“Nine, but it’s still snowing. Gabe texted. Tonight’s party for that accounting firm is canceled and the snowplow folks are running behind. He said to take our time, and he’ll text when he gets a better idea of when or if Seasons can open.”
“A possible snow day?” Zeb grinned broadly. “Sounds like you got your December wish.”
“Yeah.” If only my greatest wish were as simple as a snow day. True, I’d wished aloud for more snow, but privately, I’d wished for a year of December. Three hundred and sixty-five days of Zeb, picnics, late-night sex, and lazy mornings. If wishes were snowflakes, the whole Eastern Seaboard would be buried, but instead, my wishes were more like flurries, evaporating as soon as they hit reality. Damn it. I snagged a piece of the toast I’d put with the eggs and potatoes.
“This is amazing,” Zeb said around a mouthful of potatoes. “What is it?”
“Lemon potatoes with oregano and feta, topped with fried eggs. Hangover cure popular at this tiny Greek diner in Nafplion. You had the right ingredients, so I looked up how to do the potatoes on my phone.”
“Were you on deployment or traveling with your folks when you discovered the diner?”
“Travel.” I chewed a bite of eggs extra well. “I was sixteen, and I undoubtedly had no business drinking, but I was also rather stupid.”
“Did your family spend a lot of time in Greece?” Zeb asked, making the same assumption as most people I encountered. “With a name like Atlas, I bet you’re at least part Greek.”
“You’d lose that bet.” My laugh was rather dry. “We spent time all over the Mediterranean, but my whole name, including the last name, is entirely the product of having two flighty parents with wanderlust.”
My name was one more reason why I’d never quite fit in anywhere I went. I wasn’t an Aguirre-Bronson like my parents, wasn’t a trust-fund baby or an ex-pat, loved Kringle’s Crossing but never belonged here like Gabe, Paige, and Zeb, and had found my purpose in the navy, but I still had a name that stood out.
