“That’s the exact opposite of what you need. Here’s what’s gonna happen.” I tuck her hair behind her ear.
She leans into my hand, closing her eyes. Once again, she says one thing with her mouth and another with her body language.
“You’re gonna take a hot shower and get dressed. We’re going out for breakfast. When we’re done with that, we’re heading to my mother’s house, hanging out with them, doing the dinner thing, then we’re coming back here and fucking again. Then we’ll sleep and you’ll have spent a day with me – most of it without being in your head and thinking whatever it is you were thinking in your little hidey-hole over there.”
She’s about to protest, so I put my finger to her lips.
“Either you spend the day with me doing all I just said or if not, you’ll leave my schedule wide open so that I’ve got the opportunity to start digging into you today. And I can get a lot done on a Sunday, baby.”
“Have you been sniffing glue?” She shoves at my chest.
I grab her wrists and then kiss the palms of each hand. “Be good.”
She growls at me.
“Your choice. Make it, Vixen.”
“I choose to be bad,” she snaps.
But then she swallows and looks away, chin trembling as she fights off more tears.
I give it a minute before jiggling her wrists.
“I’ll think about it while I’m in the shower.”
“Right.”
“But I don’t wanna go out for breakfast,” she says.
“Then I’ll cook while you’re in the shower.”
“I’ll make breakfast when I come out.”
“Yeah?” I check. “For the both of us?”
She nods. “You’ve been doing all the cooking. It’s my turn.”
Shit. For real?
“Not gonna argue with that,” I say.
“But you can make coffee. Now, please.”
“I’ll get right on that, baby.”
“Fine.”
She pulls away from me and stomps off to the bathroom and I fight the urge to laugh because the Tigger tail attached to the backside of her pajamas bounces as she walks away. The cat follows her.
While she’s gone, I spy the source of the videos. A teddy bear propped on the dresser facing the door.
I get up and lean on the doorframe of the walk-in closet I just hauled her out of.
My eyes land on a painting of pink daisies. A whole canvas of them.
“Don’t!” she’s back and shoving me to the side, so she can close that door, then she’s poking my chest. “That’s off limits. Do you hear me?”
“What?”
“If you have even a fraction of respect or whatever for me, you’ll stay the fuck out of there.”
I raise my hands.
“I mean it.”
“You’re heard.” I back up.
She stares at me for a beat, likely assessing my honesty, then twists the key that’s in the lock on the doorknob, tests the door, and takes the key with her to the bathroom.
I head back to the other room and pull on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, then head out to the kitchen and start the coffee.
22
Ally
He’s sitting there, TV on, looking sexy in a white t-shirt and pair of dark sweatpants with bare feet crossed and on my coffee table. He’s watching news on TV and also doing something on his laptop while I make breakfast.
He wouldn’t be sitting there digging into me right in front of me after promising not to, would he?
His eyes hit mine as he thrusts his hand through the flop of longer hair on top that’s fallen into his eyes while I pour another dollop of pancake batter onto the griddle.
Will I ever look at him and not feel like swooning at the sheer sexiness?
Beyond feeling that right now, I feel drained. Emotionally drained. I did a lot of crying last night and this morning, and I’m feeling kind of silly about it. But also… strange about it. Processing his reaction and finding myself unable to focus on anything but this feeling of being close to him.
“What’s on your mind?” he asks.
“Wondering what you’re doing,” I reply.
“Work.”
“Work?”
“For a paying customer.”
I stare.
“Not Carmichael Consulting this time, Vixen.”
“Oh.” I turn away and reach into the fridge for the package of bacon. “Just making sure you’re not reneging on our temporary deal.”
“So, it’s a deal then, is it?”
“I’m making breakfast, aren’t I?”
“Spending the day with me?” he asks and then smiles, looking so absolutely drop dead gorgeous when he does that my knees go wobbly.
“What’s for breakfast?” he asks.
“Banana chocolate chip pancakes and bacon,” I say, scissoring through the plastic on the bacon package.
His eyes light up. “Yeah?”
I nod.
“Only problem is that my recipe makes … like… thirty pancakes so it takes a while. I’ve tried quartering or even halfing it, but unless I make a whole batch, the magic just isn’t there.” I shrug.
“Lookin’ forward to the magic, baby. What do you do with all those extra pancakes?”
“Eat them until I’m sick of them over twenty-four hours and then throw away the rest. I generally only make them for other people, though and let them take leftovers.”