Page 68 of Rookie Recovery

Until a plate heaped with greasy food slid in front of my face. Sausages, bacon, fried eggs, mushrooms, grilled tomatoes, some kind of hash browns … and were those baked beans? In … tomato sauce?

I dove in headfirst. “Fuck, this smells amazing.”

“‘Cause it is.” Bowie plopped down into the seat beside me, shoved a fork into my hand. “Ketchup or Daddies?”

“Huh?”

He slid a brown squeezy bottle towards me. The label read Daddies. “Can’t have a fry-up without sauce. I brought this from home last time.”

“But … Daddies?”

“It’s ketchup, but for old men. It’s delicious.” Without any further questions, Bowie squeezed a river of brown onto the corner of my plate. He did the same to his own. “Eat.”

I did. Shoveled in a big bite of eggs and bacon and groaned because, “Fuck. This is so good. Might be better than sex—”

Oops.

My ears burned so hot it hurt. I couldn’t look at him, even to see if he was smirking, so I shoved in more food before my big fat mouth could say something it shouldn’t. I was never drinking again. Ever. Ever.

“I am an excellent cook,” Bowie said, voice lofty. “But I can promise you this is not better than sex with me.”

I choked.

Bowie slapped me on the back and slid a mug of coffee in front of me. “Sort of nice to see Dr. Perfect be less than perfect sometimes.”

“I hate you.” But I did love this coffee. Between the breakfast and the coffee, my spinning brain syndrome was starting to subside.

“No, you don’t.”

I really didn’t.

Bowie turned his bar stool, leaned his elbows back on the countertop to survey my apartment. “Your place sort of looks like mine. Except you have a dog. And you actually live here.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I wrenched my face away from my breakfast to study his profile. His mouth was relaxed into an almost-smile but his expression was serious, pensive.

“It’s … empty. I just moved in, so I haven’t unpacked anything.” His head tilted towards me. “What’s your excuse for the spartan lifestyle?”

“It’s decorated.” I waved at the one lone painting—some kind of winter tree aesthetic Katie had unearthed from a Pier 1—on the wall opposite the 55-inch TV.

“Twenty bucks says Katie bought that.”

“This is wildly unfair.”

“It would be less unfair if you weren’t such a rich, hot bachelor with a stick up his ass.” Bowie grinned and kicked his legs back and forth under the chair. “How do you think I feel in comparison?”

“Dunno, but you look damn pleased with yourself.”

“I am damn pleased with myself.”

“Why?” I asked, though I sort of suspected I might not want to know the answer.

“Well, I met this rich, hot bachelor. Kinda has a stick up his ass, but he let me cook him breakfast.” He leaned in a little closer, sending a cool, delicious shiver down my spine as the words brushed my ear. “I think he liked it.”

I turned my head up from my plate, and his face was right there. So close it made everything around me fade away, made the world stop spinning, too. Green eyes. Scattering of light freckles over the bridge of his nose—had I noticed those before? I was noticing now. Bowed lips quirked into that cocky smile. Mere inches between that mouth and mine.

Would be so easy to reenact what had happened between us last night. The soft brush of mouths, my tongue flicking out to sample the arch of that bowed upper lip. His tongue sliding across mine—

Except I wouldn’t be able to explain it away with booze.

---