“What time is it?” she asks when I pull back.
“Early. You should sleep more.”
“Mmm.” She stretches again. Her body sliding against mine in ways that are extremely distracting. “I’m hungry.”
“I can make eggs.”
“You’ll burn them.”
“Probably.” I kiss her nose. “I’ll make them anyway.”
She laughs. That bright sound I’m addicted to.
I force myself out of bed. Find my boxers on the floor. Pull them on while she watches with an expression that’s somewhere between appreciative and predatory.
“Enjoying the view?”
“Very much.” She sits up. The sheet falls to her waist. I have to look away or I’m getting back in that bed and neither of us will eat for hours. “Can I wear your shirt?”
“My shirt?”
She points to where I dropped it last night. “That one.”
“Yeah.” My voice comes out rough. “Yeah, you can wear it.”
She slides out of bed. Naked. Gorgeous. Completely unselfconscious. Picks up my shirt. Pulls it over her head.
It swallows her. Falls to mid-thigh. The sleeves past her hands.
She looks up at me. “What?”
I’m staring. I know I’m staring. Can’t help it. “You’re.” I shake my head. “Nothing. Coffee?”
“Coffee.”
I burn the eggs. She eats them anyway.
We sit at her tiny kitchen table, her in my shirt, me in just boxers, sharing burnt eggs and good coffee and something that feels terrifyingly like domesticity.
“I could get used to this,” she says.
“Burnt eggs?”
“You. Here. In the mornings.” She reaches across the table. Takes my hand. “This.”
My throat tightens. “Yeah,” I manage. “Me too.”
We don’t talk about the complications. The danger. The fact that Sal is still looking for her and I’m still lying to the family and everything about this situation is impossible.
We sit there. Holding hands. Eating burnt eggs. Being happy.
Eventually, I have to leave. I’ve already stayed too long. Sal will notice if I disappear completely.
“I’ll come back tonight,” I tell her at the door. “After I handle some things.”
“Things?”
“Work things. Nothing you need to worry about.”
