Page 112 of IRL: In Real Life
“No.” He turned off the burner. “I’m just paying attention.”
Of course he was.
I slid onto one of the stools at the island and tried to act like my whole body had not just answered him in broad morning light. The cool stone felt good under my forearms. My thighs still held that pleasant soreness from the night before, and now my breasts were too awake all over again for a workday morning I was supposed to survive in public.
Micah set a mug in front of me, then his own plate, then took the stool beside mine like none of what he had just said should have left me sitting there replaying his mouth on my body.
I picked up my coffee first because it felt safer than looking at him too long.
It wasn’t.
For a second, neither of us did anything but look.
His face showed no signs of the barely two hours of sleep we got. That diamond stud still caught the morning light. His mouth looked used in a way that made memory stir too fast in my body again.
I picked up my fork before I embarrassed myself.
The omelet was perfect.
Not decent.
Not surprisingly edible.
Perfect.
I chewed once, swallowed, and looked at him. “You are irritating.”
His mouth curved around his coffee. “Because I cook?”
“Because you apparently cook well.”
“That part is fair.”
I took another bite and sat in the quiet of that for a second. The city outside. The smell of coffee and butter. My body still tender from him. His bare shoulder warm beside me. It all felt too intimate for a workday morning and exactly right anyway.
He nodded toward my plate. “Do you cook?”
I laughed softly before I could stop myself. The question caught somewhere familiar.
My parents’ kitchen.
My mother at the stove.
My father seasoning chicken and looking at me like he knew things I had not admitted yet.
Micah heard the laugh and tilted his head. “That bad?”
“Not bad.” I set my fork down. “I’m just hearing my parents in the background.”
“Uh-oh.”
“That’s exactly the reaction it deserves.” I took a sip of coffee. “I’m not a huge cook.”
His eyes stayed on me, amused already.
“I can handle breakfast,” I said. “French toast. Cream of wheat. And I make a mean steak.”
That got a real smile out of him.
