Page 117 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
“You’re awake,” he says, voice low, sleep-rough, and way too sexy for seven a.m.
I close my eyes again. “So are you.”
“You were talking in your sleep.”
Oh no.
“No, I wasn’t.”
“You said ‘peanut sauce’ and ‘glitter’ in the same sentence. Also something about a staff meeting and edible dog decorations.”
I groan, dragging the blanket over my face. “Please tell me I didn’t say your name.”
Silence.
I peek out.
He’s already looking at me, brow arched like I walked into my own trap barefoot. Which I did. With confetti.
“You said it,” he murmurs, quiet but smug.
Crap. So much crap. This is bad, but I don’t know the degree of bad it is.
“I must’ve been dreaming about firing you.”
He grins. “In your dream, I was your emotional support intern, bringing you lattes and puppy-safe glitter.”
I scoff because the stuff he makes up is always hilarious. “Sounds about right.”
Lucian rolls onto his side, propping his head on one hand. The blanket slips low on his hips—and, hello, abs. Focus, Olivia. Don’t ogle the man who just made you forget what dignity tastes like.
“What else did I say?” I ask warily.
His gaze softens. “Nothing that made sense. But you were smiling.”
It takes me a beat too long to respond. “I don’t think I usually smile in my sleep.”
“You don’t usually sleep here.”
Don’t read into it. Do not make this a thing.
I sit up, ignoring how his shirt slips off one shoulder—and the way his eyes follow it as if it has committed an unforgivable act. Or maybe . . . maybe that’s hunger in his gaze. He craves my skin . . . okay, time to get out of bed before we repeat whatever happened last night.
I gather my hair off my neck and twist it into the internationally recognized “I-have-no-energy” bun, then slide out of bed. Sarah lifts her head from the floor like she’s been waiting for this moment her whole life. I let her out to the backyard and head to the kitchen.
Lucian follows, of course.
Because he’s a menace. The worst. The best. But mostly the worst.
“I’ll make coffee,” he says, already reaching for the French press like a man who knows precisely where my last nerve lives.
“You don’t have to,” I mutter, even as I watch his biceps scoop the grounds.
Why does he have to look hot . . . well just existing?
He shrugs. “I want to.”
There it is again. That quiet little landmine of intention he keeps dropping like it’s casual. He wants to do things for me.
