Page 26 of Resisting Royal

“His spot?” he stuttered. “A bunny doesn’t have a spot in my bed.”

“Maybe you should just find a new place to sleep.” Sorry, I wasn’t willing to move now that I knew a bed could be this amazing. I buried myself deeper into his sheets.

“I thought about it last night since your snoring damn near chased me away, but I decided to hold my ground. I won’t be beaten by the world’s worst dentist—or her pet. Get him a cage Bianca, or I will.”

I knew a cage wasn’t happening, so I didn’t bother paying much attention to that demand. Instead, I concentrated on the most outlandish lie he told. “I do not snore.”

“Oh, Amore, you most certainly do.”

The complaint made me feel a bit defensive. “I have never snored a night in my life, Royal.”

He tossed me his phone, a video on the screen ready to play. “I had a feeling you would say that.”

I hit play. My face filled the screen, my eyes closed, my hair a mess and—“I was tired, okay? Living with you is exhausting. So I snored one time.” Loudly, I might add. “I don’t think that’s a crime to humanity.”

He was patting his face with a towel as he approached me. “You know, although you snore like an elephant with a clogged trunk, I still think you’re mighty adorable when you sleep.”

He took a single finger and tapped my nose before disappearing into the closet. “Did you just . . . boop me?”

“Seems so,” came the muffled reply.

God, why is he so infuriating? Why couldn’t I be forced into a marriage with a simple guy who likes simple things and only ignites simple feelings? “You’re a jerk.” He didn’t answer, but judging by the rumbling coming from his closet, I suspected he heard me.

Instead of feeding his amusement, I chose to eat breakfast while he was getting ready to avoid any contact or unwanted conversation. The kitchen was amazing, which I never really appreciated when he gave me a quick tour. The dark woods and granite counters all sparkled and gleamed, and I couldn’t help but run my fingers over the smooth surface.

I sighed. I would love to cook in this kitchen, baking cookies and cakes. Which seemed sort of ironic, since my job was based around warding off the effects of sugars. I glanced around, seeing that I was alone before I pulled open the cabinets. The cookware was dreamy, all stainless steel and coppers and before I could think better of it, I was pulling out a heavy bottom pan and placing it on the gas stove, warming it up before I walked into the pantry.

Once the supplies were in my hand, I hadn’t really thought much about what I was doing until a spread of pancakes, bacon, and eggs lay on platters in front of me, and my husband watched silently from the doorframe a few feet away. “You cook?”

“Breakfast.” Actually, I cooked a lot more than breakfast, but I was keeping his expectations low.

“For me?” he raised an eyebrow as he questioned.

“For me. But I guess I can share the extras.”

He gave me a knowing nod as he walked to the coffee pot, taking out two mugs and filling them up with the liquid gold. “Cream and sugar?”

“Yes, please.” I carried the platter to the big wooden table. “Does Greta eat breakfast?”

Ugh. Dumb question asked out of nerves. Of course, she eats breakfast. He ignored the fact that my question was obvious. “She does, but she left earlier. She has her jogging groups on Fridays.”

Huh. The old woman was more active than I was, even at—I glanced at my watch—six ten in the morning. “Do you put a babysitter on her, too?”

“No one wants an old woman who curses like a sailor and can use a knife quicker than a trained operative.”

He sat the mug down in front of me, my hands instantly gravitating toward it. The warm stoneware inviting me to wrap my fingers around it and never let go. I inhaled deeply before taking a gulp of the warm slice of heaven. I hummed my approval as I took another sip. How the hell did he make it taste so damn perfect?

“So, you’re a coffee girl I take it.” He reached for his own mug.

“It speaks to my soul,” I confessed.

He picked up some bacon and snapped off a piece, popping it into his mouth. “Which part of your soul . . . the scorching, dark, bitter part or the sweet, light, tame one?”

Clever sir. “I like to think both parts call to me equally.”

He picked up his fork and cut into a pancake. “I must admit, I find both infatuating. These are pretty good.”

He licked his lips, and my eyes followed the movement. “Being raised by a father meant eating ramen noodles and mac and cheese. I learned quick.”

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