Crown of Ghosts (Lost Kings MC 19)

There’s a new-in-box toothbrush on the counter.

Did he leave that there for me?

Hoping that it is indeed mine, I rip it open and scrub the sleep from my mouth. Staring into the mirror isn’t as bad as I’d feared. I fix a few stray smudges of leftover eyeliner and finger comb my hair into something a little less stuck-my-finger-in-a-light-socket looking.

As presentable as I’m going to get wearing no pants, I quietly walk to the kitchen.

Grayson’s at the stove. Back toward me. A plain black T-shirt stretches tight against his broad back and biceps. Jeans. Bare feet.

“Morning,” he says over his shoulder.

“Hey.”

He turns. “Can’t sneak up on me, buttercup.”

“I wasn’t trying to.” I slide onto one of the stools on the other side of the counter where I can watch him work but not be in the way.

He sets a mug of coffee in front of me. I close my eyes and dip closer to inhale the nutty, fresh scent. “Mmm.”

“I realized I didn’t have anything here, so I got up early and ran to the store.” He rests his elbows on the counter and leans over, pressing a soft kiss to my cheek. “Bacon, eggs, and toast okay with you?”

“That sounds good. You should’ve woken me up. I would’ve gone to the store with you.” To cover the sharpness of my words, I take a sip of coffee.

Concern darkens his eyes, and he cups my hands in his. “Thought you needed some rest after last night.”

“You did quite a bit of activity yourself.” I raise an eyebrow as I take another tentative sip of my coffee. “I wanted to wake up with you.”

“I’m always up early. No matter what.” The easiness from our banter ebbs away. “Don’t think that’ll change any time soon.”

My nose wrinkles at the bitter coffee. “Sweetener?”

“Uh.” He turns, searching the items laid out on the counter near the refrigerator. “I’ve got sugar here somewhere.”

“Oh! I might have some in my purse.” I slide off the stool and search the living room. My gaze lands on a small coatrack near the door, and I find my purse dangling from a hook next to my coat. I shove my hand inside, fishing around the bottom until my fingers encounter a few wrinkled packets. “Aha!”

I yank the little orange rectangles out victoriously and return to the counter.

Grayson studies the packets without comment. I stir my coffee and take a sip. Much better.

“I’m fussy about certain things,” I explain.

He holds up his hands. “Coffee’s something you don’t want to mess with.” He sets a container of half-and-half on the counter. “I’m thrilled to have access to the real thing again.”

My sweetener preferences seem a little silly now. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He lowers his gaze. “Have I mentioned how good you look in that?”

I peer down and realize my right boob is trying to make a run for it again. Laughing, I readjust the shirt. “I don’t have anything else to wear.”

“We can fix that.” One corner of his mouth lifts again. “But I like how this looks on you.”

I slide out of my chair and round the corner, stepping into the kitchen.

His eyes slowly travel down my legs. “Yes. Definitely like how that looks. Turn around for me.”

I turn slowly and peer at him over my shoulder.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

Something pops and snaps on the stove, and I duck for cover. Grayson twists the knob to turn down the heat under the frying pan. “Still haven’t gotten the hang of this yet,” he mutters.

“Do you want me to—”

“No.” He jerks his head to the side. “Go sit down. It’s almost ready.”

His harshness stings but I see how important it is to do it on his own, so I return to my seat.

A few minutes later, he sets a plate of extra crispy bacon on the counter followed by eggs, toast, and butter. “Bacon’s a bit overdone.” He gestures to the stove behind him. “I can make more.”

I grab a slice and pop a piece in my mouth. “I like it this way. Less fat.”

He runs his gaze over me. “That’s not something you need to worry about.”

We eat without talking. Instead of sitting on the stool next to me, he stands on the other side of the counter. An undercurrent of tension or unease simmers below the surface. Is he mad we slept together? Ready for me to go home?

“Not hungry?” he asks, staring at my plate.

“Oh.” I pick up my toast and take a bite. I’m too lost in my own head, worrying last night was a mistake. Or that he thinks it was a mistake.

Be direct.

I open my mouth to ask what’s wrong but he leans toward the end of the counter and slides a newspaper my way. “I thought we’d go look at a few apartments today.”

I choke on my toast and quickly sip some coffee. “Apartments?” I sputter. “Why?”