Page 28 of Hot Momosa

Harrison was bad enough, but Harry? The nickname made me want to vomit. I went into the kitchen to give her the illusion of privacy in the large open-concept room.

“Sorry about that. I had no idea you were in New Orleans, let alone stopping by…” Her voice shook. “Someone broke into my house. I think it was my stalker.”

Stopping by? At this hour? What the fuck?

I pulled a pan down from the rack, set it on the stove, and pretended to be too busy to eavesdrop.

“I’m okay.” Dahlia sighed and glanced at me. “Where am I?”

Rather than helping her come up with an alibi, I turned to the fridge and pulled out the butter, eggs, and a pint of berries.

“I’m staying with a friend tonight.” She frowned. “No, it’s okay. I don’t want to wake Gunnar.”

The longer she spoke to Harrison-fucking-Meriwether, the more it sounded like she was lying to a significant other—and the more my blood boiled. She’d said the douchebag had proposed marriage, but I didn’t recall her telling me she’d turned him down—only that they were just friends.

They sure as hell don’t sound like just friends.

“Sure, tomorrow sounds great.” She paused, glanced at me and looked away just as quickly. “But I’ll have Gunnar with me. Christina quit.”

“I’ll keep an eye on him tomorrow.” I made sure to speak loud enough that Politician Ken Doll could hear me.

Dahlia’s mouth fell open. “That? Oh…that was Leo.”

Resisting the urge to smirk, I cracked several eggs into a bowl.

Fuck him. I bet he doesn’t know French toast is her favorite comfort food. Let alone how to make it exactly the way she likes it.

By the time Dahlia finished the call, the French toast was ready. We ate in an uncomfortable silence, or I did anyway. Dahlia seemed focused on eating. Actually, she seemed too focused.

She had a lot going on. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that she was thinking about Harrison or her dad or the stalker. Or maybe, just maybe, she was thinking about me.

Whatever the case, I missed the freaky, almost psychic connection we used to share.

“This is exactly what I needed.” Dahlia swirled her last bite of French toast through the syrup before popping it into her mouth.

The satisfied noise she made went straight to my cock, but I did my best to ignore it. It’d been a long day and longer night. Neither of us were in any shape to get physical. Besides, if I had my way, I’d spend the rest of my life doing anything and everything I could to hear all of her moans and sighs.

“How do you do it?” She sat back and rested her hands on her belly like she had when she’d been pregnant with Gunnar—minus the baby bump, of course.

I took her plate to the sink. “Do what?”

“Achieve the perfect bread to berry ratio. It’s like you know exactly how many strawberries to add to each piece of bread.” She polished off her chamomile tea and flashed me a drowsy smile.

“I’m just that good.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

Between the purr in her voice and the hint of a grin, I couldn’t tell if she was flirting or too tired to keep the wall up between us. Not that it mattered, not yet anyway. “Let’s get you to bed, sweetheart.”

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