He secures his arm around me, pulling me close. I burrow my face into his bare chest and press myself against him, wrapping my arm around his firm torso. He kisses the top of my head, then rubs my back as another flash of lightning penetrates the bedroom. I brace myself for the delayed rumbling, and he tightens his arm around me as it comes to pass. I’m too tired to process the intimacy between us and relax in his sturdy embrace. The sound of the torrential downpour striking the roof eventually coaxes me back to sleep.
I CRACK OPEN my heavy eyelids to a soft glow filtering through the slits of the shutters. The tiny beams of sunlight sting my eyes, and I wait for my vision to adjust before scanning my surroundings. I squint at the empty space beside me, and the dam in my chest breaks loose, flooding me with wonderment. It’s not a dream. I’m in his bed . . . Elijah Slate’s bed!
I realize the shower is running and slowly sit up, my head throbbing. He looked like he just showered before I showed up on his doorstep last night. . . . Is he really that freakishly clean? I really need to pee, and although the toilet is in its own private room, I know there is no way I’ll be able to slip in without seeing him naked. Flipping the covers aside, I jump down from the bed and clutch the edge of the dresser to steady myself. My stomach rolls, and I close my eyes to shut out the sway of the room. Ugh. Too fast. I hear the shower turn off, and I catch my reflection in the mirror. I fell asleep before washing my face and my eye makeup is smeared, making me look raccoonish. I attempt to wipe it away, but it won’t budge. Great.
As I slide my fingers through my tangled hair, his reflection stops me as he steps out of the bathroom wearing jeans and a black cotton T-shirt. I study his bicep as he ruffles a towel through his damp hair, causing his T-shirt to rise, revealing just a bit of his toned stomach. My breath catches in my throat. I remember my raccoon eyes and an uncontrollable heat surges through my cheeks.
“Good morning, beautiful,” he says with a heart-crushing smile.
My stomach flutters against the nausea.
“Good morning,” I croak, hoping he won’t kiss me before I get a chance to brush my teeth.
He grabs his phone from the nightstand and glances at the screen before sliding it into his pocket. “How’s your head?”
“Kind of sucky,” I admit.
He offers his hand. “Come out to the kitchen, I’ll make you feel better.”
My mind flashes to last night’s event on the island, but I know that’s not what he means. “Um . . . can I meet you out there?”
He drops his hand to his side. “Sure. You okay?”
I nod, forcing a smile. As soon as he leaves the room, I rush into the bathroom to relieve myself, and the dizziness forces me to hold onto the wall. Once the room stops spinning, I carefully make my way to the sink and splash water on my face, scrubbing off the mess of dried makeup. I sweep the mouthwash off the counter and gargle for as long as I can handle without gagging. My stomach threatens me, and I pray I don’t throw up in his immaculate bathroom.
After pulling my hair up into a sloppy bun, I make my way down the hall. As I pass the living room, I notice he’s already put the blankets and pillows away, and I smile. Everything in its place. When I step into the kitchen, he pulls out a chair that’s tucked underneath the side of the island and gestures for me to sit. I catch him glance at my chest as I walk over to him and look down. Crap. My heartbeat quickens, and I feel myself blush.
“Sorry,” I mumble, sinking into the chair. In my state of grogginess, I forgot to put on a bra, and my thin little tank top allows more than a suggestion. “Please tell me you have coffee.”
“Oh,” he says, hesitating. “I don’t drink coffee, sorry.”
I sigh, leaning my elbows on the counter and rubbing my temples. He drops two effervescents into a small glass of water and slides it in front of me.
“Here,” he says with a smile. “Drink this, you’ll feel better.”
I bring the glass to my lips and as soon as the medicinal taste hits my tongue, I nearly choke. “Ugh! What the hell is this?”
“Just trust me.”
I force another sip and try not to gag.
He leans against the counter. “Do you want breakfast?”
“Do you shower twice a day?” I ask.
He clamps his lips together, and his eyes dance at the random question. “Um, no. Not normally. Why?”
I shrug and look down at my fizzy drink. “Just wondering. Your hair was wet last night. It looked like you had just showered before I came over, and you just showered this morning.”
“Oh, yeah I did, but that’s because I went for a quick run this morning.”
Of course you did, Mr. Perfect.
“So, you were just going to let me wake up all alone wondering where you were?” I tease.
“I left a note. And you seemed to be sleeping pretty well.”
I don’t even want to know what he means by that. The image of him watching me drool on my pillow flashes through my mind, and I cringe. I take another sip of the wretched drink and make a face.
“How’s your stomach? Do you want some eggs or anything?”
I wince. “Ew. I can’t handle eggs right now. I need carbs. Like toast, or hash browns, or something.”
He frowns. “Oh . . . I don’t really have anything like that. The only carbs I have are vegetables . . . well, and brown rice and quinoa.”
“Right,” I say. “The whole eight-pack thing.”
He laughs. “Something like that. Oh! I have oats—do you want some oatmeal?”
I stare at him for a moment. “No, thanks.” The thought of wiggly, mushy oats make me want to wretch.
“Finish your drink, and I’ll run out and get you something real quick.”
“No, you don’t have to do that. Honestly, I’ll be fine. My stomach just needs to settle.”
“I want to.” He kisses the top of my head. “I’ll be right back,” he says, slipping on his shoes. He grabs his keys and disappears through the garage door.
I finish the last of my revolting drink and head back into the bedroom to take a shower and get dressed. My bra is on top of my bag, folded in department store quality, and I shake my head, amused.
Feeling too queasy to be anxious over using his shower, I drag my bag into the bathroom, and I’m thankful to see he laid out a stack of towels for me. I admire the beautiful stone tile surrounding me as I wash up and take a moment to relax underneath the hot, penetrating stream of water—it’s like a gift from God.
After I force myself to turn off the shower and step out, I dry off and pull out my jeans and gray cotton T-shirt. I search for my hair dryer, only to realize I left my bag full of hair products at the hotel. Awesome. Taking a chance, I peek in his cabinets and eventually find a pink hairdryer way in the back, on the bottom shelf. Either this belongs to a woman, or I have bigger problems. My mind flashes to The Blonde as I plug it in and get to work. I’ll have to ask him about her eventually, but I can’t handle that today. Hopefully, they’re broken up and she just left this behind. . . . Unless he has it here for his endless string of women he brings home. Will you chill out? You don’t know that!
After I’m done, I set the hairdryer back in its place and apply a minimal amount of makeup—just enough to look a little less dead. I spread my bubble gum chap stick across my lips and feel my headache starting to dissipate.
As soon as I open the bedroom door, the smell of breakfast wafts through the house and my stomach rumbles. Seems the repulsive drink has some merit. When I reach the kitchen, he’s frying up some hash browns and my chest swells. His face brightens when he notices my presence, and he flashes that incredible smile of his.
“All right, Kay, I’ve got hash browns, toast, and waffles—will that suffice your need for carbohydrates?” he says with a smirk.
“I think that will do.” I notice a waffle maker on the counter. “Waffles from scratch? Like, homemade?”
“Yep,” he replies. “Belgian. I don’t like that frozen junk.”
“You are a god,” I say, walking to the island. He laughs, and I sit down at the counter, finding a fresh steaming cup of coffee. “You got me Starbucks, too?” I ask in disbelief.
“I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I just got you a latte, is that okay?”
“Yes, of course,” I say in awe. He winks at me and returns to his cooking.
I sip my coffee, trying to let the fact that I just spent the night at “Mr. Slate’s” house resonate with me. And now he’s cooking me breakfast—and even bought me coffee. The whole scenario seems too good to be true. I wish I could stay in this moment for the rest of my life.
He presents me with a large Belgian waffle, a plate of hash browns, toast, and sausage.
“Breakfast is served,” he says.
My eyes take in the overwhelming display. “Sausage, too? I’m not going to be able to eat all of this.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll help you out,” he says, sliding in the chair next to me. “But first things first.” He grabs my face and draws me in for a kiss. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” I say, an uncontrollable grin spreading across my face. He releases me, and I butter my waffle, then cover it in syrup. Not only am I hungover, but I ate like a bird yesterday. This is pure heaven.