Page 93 of Five Alarm Kiss

Not that she’d expected a hot coeds calendar tacked to the wall—okay, so part of her might have considered it, given hisplayboy reputation—but in the few weeks she’d known him, Jake had bucked stereotypes along with her preconceived notions.

Walking back to the bed, she straightened their clothes and had barely laid them on the nightstand when the door opened.

“Hey, good morning,” Jake said. His hair was disheveled, and he was shirtless. And if he didn’t already look yummy enough, he was wearing those sinful gray sweats again.

Good morning, indeed.

“Get back in bed.” His abrupt order came out of nowhere.

She blinked like someone had tapped her on the nose. “What?”

He disappeared, only to return a moment later carrying a tray table. He stopped a few steps past the threshold when he saw she hadn’t budged.

“Get your hot little ass in bed,” he said sternly.

Arousal and confusion had Laurel dutifully climbing back onto the bed. She pulled the covers over her bare legs.

Now that she was where he wanted her, Jake closed the remaining distance between them. The tray in his hands was laden with a plate of something that smelled divine, a glass of orange juice, a cup full of what she hoped was coffee, and a vase with a…? She squinted. Was that a…?

“Washcloth,” he supplied, reading her puzzled expression.

She cocked her head. “A… what is it?”

“It’s a washcloth,” he repeated as if it was the most normal thing in the world to have it partially stuffed into a vase with the other half hanging out. “I didn’t have any flowers, and this has a floral print, so I improvised.”

Her smile practically split her face. That was the silliest, cutest thing she’d ever seen.

“Scooch,” he ordered.

She moved over to the center of the bed. When Jake placed the breakfast tray down so it framed her thighs, her stomach gurgled loudly.

“Oh, my goodness. I’m so sorry,” she said, pressing a hand to her abdomen. It was as if the mention of food had sent a memo straight to her stomach.

“Nothing to be sorry for.” He sat on the bed next to her. “We did kinda skip past dinner last night.”

The look in his eyes made her stomach flutter.

Choosing to pretend she hadn’t heard his comment, she gestured to the tray. “What’d you bring me?”

“Tell me you like spinach quiche.”

“I like spinach quiche,” she sassed, earning her a so-that’s-how-it’s-gonna-be expression.

The spread he’d laid before her was so gorgeous, it could be featured on the cover of a cooking magazine. Seriously, Gordon Ramsay would be impressed.

The huge piece of quiche looked light and fluffy and melt-in-your-mouth delicious. The bacon was crisp—just the way she liked it—and there was a fancy array of artfully arranged sliced, fresh fruit with a side of perfectly toasted sourdough.

“Did you make this?” she asked, somehow knowing he had. No denying, the man could cook.

He placed a hand over his heart. “I’m offended. Do you really think I’d give you frozen quiche to replenish all those calories you burned last night?”

Was he trying to embarrass her, or turn her on? Because… mission accomplished!

Quick! Think of something clever to say.

“Um… uh…”

You know that emoji with the woman’s hand covering her face? Yeah, Laurel and that emoji were best buds now.

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