Taking another sip of her coffee, she felt her stomach start to rumble. Unlike her friend Violet, who could charge through the day on a steady diet of coffee and the occasional protein bar before she got pregnant, Lucy liked to eat, and she especially liked to eat breakfast. Eggs, pancakes, waffles, sugary cereal, oatmeal, toast, bacon…you name it. She was a fan of the meal in general. She wasn’t the kind who could make it to lunch without eating anything.
How long could she last today? She looked at the clock in the hallway. It was just after six thirty. There was a deli up the block where she could get a bagel or order delivery, but she didn’t need to be seen by the general public. Especially not wearing silk capris, a hole-ridden old T-shirt, no bra, last night’s makeup and morning-after hair. Lucy didn’t need a mirror to know that she’d announce “walk of shame” to anyone she passed.
Including Oliver.
On that note, Lucy pushed aside the idea of food for a moment and sought out the hall powder room to see how bad it really was. She winced in the mirror when she switched on the light. It was a rough look.
The clothes were what they were unless she wanted to wear her gown around the house, but she could clean up the rest. She splashed warm water on her face and used a disposable towel to wipe away the remnants of last night’s smoky eye. Then she finger-combed her hair into a messy knot on the top of her head. It was still a far cry from her polished look at the museum the night before, but it was a casual, carefree messy instead of a hot-mess messy. The best she could do on an unplanned overnight stay.
The apartment was still silent when she stepped back out into the hall. Silent enough for her loud tummy rumbling to nearly echo. She couldn’t put off breakfast for too much longer.
Lucy started rummaging through his cabinets for an easy option but found nothing she could grab like a pastry or a granola bar. That left real food. Oliver didn’t strike her as the kind of man who did a lot of cooking, but she hadn’t thought he was a gardener either. While the selection wasn’t outstanding, she did find just enough between the contents of the pantry and the refrigerator to cobble together a decent breakfast for the two of them.
It was actually a dish that Alice had taught her to make in the years she’d lived with her. She’d called it Trash Casserole, but it was basically a crustless quiche filled with an assortment of breakfast foods. The idea was to make it with whatever was on hand, hence the trash, but Alice always made it following a strict recipe, which Lucy appreciated.
Her mother was an excellent cook after working at the local diner for twenty years, but it never rubbed off on Lucy. She wasn’t a natural at it the way her mom was. Her mother could never explain how or why she did certain things, she just cooked it until it looked right and never followed a recipe. Eventually, Lucy just got frustrated with trying to learn and gave up.
Alice had been a lot easier to follow. She kept all her recipes on neatly handwritten cards in a brass box that sat in the cupboard. Those cards were gospel as far as Alice was concerned and she never strayed. Lucy had thought she would copy them all down for herself so she could make those dishes in her own home one day. Now, she realized, those painstakingly scripted cards were hers, along with everything else.
Maybe.
Lucy doubted that Oliver would begrudge her some recipe cards if she really wanted them, but at the moment, they were tied up with about half a billion in other assets of the estate. She’d tried not to think about Oliver as her adversary, but his aunt’s will was definitely the elephant in the room with them. Lucy didn’t expect him to drop the protest just because they’d had sex, but a part of her hoped that maybe he knew her well enough now not to confuse her with his greedy stepmother. Or perhaps not. Sex somehow could change everything and yet nothing all at once.
“Something smells good.”
Lucy looked up to see Oliver standing near the Keurig. He was looking deliciously messy himself, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans and some heavy stubble. The hard, tan stomach she’d explored the night before was on full display with his jeans hanging low on his hips. He ran his fingers through his hair and smiled sheepishly. The combination sent her pulse through the roof. It was nearly enough of a distraction to make her burn their breakfast if the timer hadn’t gone off that very second.
“Good morning,” she said, anxiously turning away from him and focusing on pulling the casserole out of the oven. “Are you hungry?”
“Mmm-hmm,” he muttered as he came in closer and snuggled up behind her. He planted a kiss on her neck that sent a chill down her spine and a warmth of awareness across her skin. She turned to give him a proper good-morning kiss but realized his attention had shifted to what she was cooking.