Page 63 of Tattered Edges

I didn’t want to regret it. Notanyof it.

Behind the darkness of my eyelids, the memory of Rory’s smile flashed before my eyes, and I felt the tension instantly leave my shoulders.

How could I ever regret elicitingthat?

Before I could get caught up in my thoughts again, I decided it was time to get up. I was definitely going to need a phone date with Diane to help me sort through my neuroses, but at present, a cup of coffee would have to suffice.

Morning’s light was peeking through the blinds Rory had over his windows, providing enough illumination for me to search the floor for some clothes to cover my nakedness. I hunted for my panties first, but as soon as I found them, the thought of putting them on made my sex clench as memories of Rory’s mouth on me flashed before my eyes.

It was true, I didn’t know what we were doing. Not exactly.

But all fears aside, I knew I wasn’t nearly ready to stop doing it.

I decided to skip the panties and reached for Rory’s turtleneck instead. As I pulled it over my head, the scent of him—bergamot and birch—engulfed me, leaving me wanting.

The bedroom door was cracked open, and I slipped into the hallway quietly, making my way to the kitchen. I found Rory already at the table with a cup of coffee and his tablet. He was wearing only a pair of black trunk briefs, his long legs stretched out in front of him. His bedhead had me pressing my thighs together—not simply because it was sexy, but because I was a big reason it was such a mess.

I stopped halfway to him, reaching up to assess the state of my own hair. There was no way it wasn’t an absolute disaster. I had half a mind to turn around and go find a mirror in order to straighten myself up a little, but then Rory shifted his attention my way and it was too late.

“Morning,” he muttered.

My stomach twisted at the word.

Not the worditselfbut the tone wrapped around it and the expression which accompanied it. It gave awaynothing.

“Hi,” I replied cautiously.

“Coffee?”

“Please.”

He was quick to lift himself out of his chair in order to pour me a cup. As he did so, he told me, “Your alarm was going off when I came out here. I silenced it but didn’t bother waking you. You’d already slept through mine, and I figured you needed the rest.”

“What time did yours go off?”

“Eight-thirty.”

“And what time is it now?”

“Nearly nine,” he said, turning to hand me my coffee.

I glanced down at it, noting he’d remembered I liked mine with milk and sugar.

Looking up at him, I was on the verge of thanking him when he spoke next.

“I want to talk to you about last night.”

This time, my stomach bottomed out, terrified what he would say next.

“About the break-in,” he clarified. “I’ve been thinking about it, and I have my suppositions as to who it might be.”

I let out a breath, giving my head a quick shake.

I didn’t want to talk about the break-in.

I wanted to talk about what happenedafterthe break-in.

I wanted to talk about how I was standing in the middle of his kitchen wearing his shirt and no underwear.

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