Page 259 of New York Love Stories: Vol. 1

For someone whocansleep in, I see this time of morning too often. To-dos and random stress, even loneliness creep in at the most annoying times of the day.

Judging by the faintest light of the sunrise I spy through a crack in my curtains, I’m guessing it’s around five thirty or six.Go to sleep, Devreux.

That’s not what has me awake, though. Loneliness is the furthest thing on my mind when it comes to Harrison Decker being in my bed.

I wish I could see his face, but I’m too content to make the effort to turn around.Sigh.I close my eyes, dearly wanting to accept this moment for what it is.

Comfort.

Warmth.

Shelter.

* * *

Cold air rollsover my skin, leaving goose bumps in the wake. I tuck my arm under the covers and tug them higher. Rolling to the other side, I catch a whiff of something in the air.

Coffee?

Bacon?

Harrison?

Harrison!I open my eyes in a flash when last night finally returns to the forefront of my mind and find the bed empty beside me. Flipping the covers off, I get to my feet and grab my robe from the chair where I left it draped. The silky material slides down my arms, and I fasten the belt around my waist. I reach the living room when I’m pulling my hair out from the collar and freeing it to lay on top.

Judging by the sunlight flooding the apartment, morning is in full swing. As is Harrison cooking at the stove. “What are you doing?” I ask.

He looks back over his shoulder. It’s then that I regret not taking the time to appreciate the sight of him prior to disrupting him. “Good morning, sunshine. You hungry? We never did get around to eating last night.”

Resting my middle against the counter of the peninsula, I ask, “Did I not satisfy your appetite?” I don’t know why I lick my lips. Gah.He gets my feminine wiles going. It’s probably how sexy he looks shirtless while holding that spatula in his hand. The black thigh-length briefs don’t hurt either. The way the waistband clings to that V of his lower stomach like I did last night . . . yeah, I bite my lower lip and admire him while I can.

“More than, but I need nourishment if you intend to wear me out like that on a regular basis.” When he turns his attention back to the food he’s cooking, I brace myself as the words regular basis sound like he’s moving in. I know he’s not. He lives in California. That’s his home. But I’m not used to someone speaking so carefree after one night. Two, if we count Catalina, and we always do.

Let it go, Tatum. It’s not a proposal but just an innocent turn of the words.

I let that phrase take up space in my subconscious and focus on the here, the now, and that glorious ass of his.Oh, good Lord.That ass . . . I grin, remembering how incredible he looks naked. Not that the briefs leave much to the imagination.

Releasing a deep breath, I realize my body is loose and tired like after a really great workout. I’ve not felt this carefree and relaxed in a long time. “So what you’re saying is we eat and then return to the bedroom to finish our meal?” I thumb over my shoulder, not worried one bit when the top of my robe slips open.

His gaze plunges from my eyes to my chest, and he has no shame in staring, taking full advantage of the situation. I could close it again and tighten the belt, but what’s the point? I like the way he looks at me like it’s the first time all over again.

He chuckles, pulling the pan to a different burner and turning off the stove. “That’s exactly what I’m saying, baby.”

Baby sounded different in the heat of the moment than in broad daylight. Am I a cute nickname kind of girlfriend?

Girlfriend? Clearly, having sex for the first time in forever has scrambled my thoughts and better judgment. He says, “I’m going to feed you first, and then I’m going to ravage your body for the rest of the day.” Two plates are on the island, and he puts scrambled eggs and bacon on each, right next to the sliced tomatoes.

“Where’d you get the plates?”

“The cabinet over by the fridge.”

“Huh?” I don’t think I’ve ever used them. Maybe once, but it’s been longer than I can remember.

Looking up with a plate in each hand, he asks, “What do you mean?”

I shrug. “I don’t cook.” Suddenly feeling self-conscious, I add, “Much.”

No judgment crosses his expression, but a smile does. “I eat out a lot because of my job, taking clients out and that kind of thing, but there’s something different about a home-cooked meal that has my heart.”

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