Page 60 of The Making of Marnie Jones

Although she’d spent little time up close and personal with him, she instinctively knew he smelled good.

As if on cue, she heard him make his way to the bathroom. The whistle of the kettle pulled her from her reverie, and she made her way back to the kitchen, pulling the Earl Grey from the cupboard.

“Morning.” Olivia entered the room, stretching and yawning at the same time.

“Coffee or tea?”

“Not chamomile.”

Marnie chuckled. “Nope. This one has caffeine.”

“I'm all in. Can I help you with breakfast?”

“No, but thanks for the offer.” She handed Olivia a mug of steaming tea. “By the time you're dressed, I’ll have some French toast whipped up.”

Olivia licked her lips. “With maple syrup?”

“With real maple syrup.” She grinned as the young woman bolted from the room.

“Sounds good.”

Marnie faced Jake. “It’ll be ready in about twenty minutes.” She tilted her head toward his messenger bag. “Do you have time to wait?”

He shook his head. “I have a meeting with my boss in about a half hour. If I leave now, I’ll have five minutes to spare.”

She poured coffee into a travel mug. “Black, right?”

He took it carefully from her outstretched hand. “Plans for today?”

“I thought we make it a girls’ day in.” She waved to the den. “We’ll use your computer, if that’s okay.”

“Of course.” He rattled off his password, which she memorized with ease.

“Olivia and I will troll for more essentials. Plus, we've got those parcels arriving. That’ll fill our day.”

He took a sip. “Well, I didn't leave my underwear laying out. Have at it.” He sighed. “I have to go.”

“Go. Go.” She shooed him toward the door. “We'll be fine.”

“I know you will.” With a quick grin, he departed.

But in his wake, he left a frisson of desire snaking through her. All very domestic, and her cheeks burned. Had he seen her emotions? Again, little butterflies of attraction fluttered around her belly. Had he sensed it too? If she was brutally honest with herself, she was no longer sure she wanted him to be oblivious of her yearnings.

“You said you would have the French toast finished by now.” There was no petulance in Olivia's voice, only teasing.

“You can always make it yourself.”

Her face flashed disappointment. “No, I can't.”

“Olivia—”

“No, Marnie, no feeling sorry for me.” The younger woman fought valiantly to keep the tears at bay. “All I was ever good at was making Kraft Dinner and heating food from a can. At least he didn't make me cook for him.”

“Hamburgers?”

“Among other things. He liked pizza. “

“I'm glad to see you still enjoy pizza.” A small thing—but it meant everything.

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