Page 81 of A Ticking Time Boss

He’s not in bed, either, but the sheets smell like him. I pull them up to my nose and take a deep breath. Linen, soap, and cologne. Beneath the fluffy down comforter, I wiggle my toes.

We’ve slept together. Twice, too. And it had been some of the best sex of my life. I smile beneath the comforter, feeling giddy and shy and well-rested.

I hear a sound from the ensuite. A tap turns on, and then off. The door opens and Carter comes into view.

He’s running a towel over his hair. He’s only in a pair of slacks, his wide chest and abs on fully display. He looks even better in daylight.

He catches me watching him. “You’re awake?”

I nod.

“Slept well?”

I nod again.

“Lost your voice there too, kid?”

I pull down the comforter and shake my head. “No. Just overwhelmed.”

“Overwhelmed,” he says with a smile. “By my handsomeness?”

That makes me chuckle. “Yes.”

“Well, when you feel like you’ve come to your senses, I’ll be in the kitchen with breakfast.” His smile turns crooked and he nods to the bathroom. “There are fresh towels in there. Help yourself to anything you find.”

After my shower, I steal one of his shirts. My clothes are in his living room and while I don’t think he’d mind, I’m not about to parade through his apartment stark naked.

Carter is sitting at the kitchen table. He’s reading the newspaper, spread out in front of him, a large hand gripping either side. His hair is half-dried and his eyes focused on the article in front of him.

My heart squeezes painfully at the sight. Mine, I think.

He lowers the paper. A slow smile spreads across his face when he sees what I’m wearing.

“You said I could help myself to anything,” I say.

“So I did… I approve wholeheartedly.”

I catch sight of the spread on the kitchen table. Croissants, fresh orange juice, a fruit platter, fried eggs, bagels. Something that looks like… an açai bowl?

“What’s all this?”

“Breakfast,” he says.

“You didn’t… did you make this?”

He chuckles. “What, you doubt my skills? After the gourmet meal I served you yesterday?”

I sit down on the chair opposite him. “I doubt.”

“You’re right to. This is from a brunch place down on Seventh Avenue. I ordered in.”

“It looks delicious.”

He folds the newspaper into a neat square and sets it down. He has two of them, I see now. The Globe and its sister publication in DC. “Dig in,” he says and reaches for his cup of coffee.

I pour myself a glass of orange juice and pull my knees up beneath me. Rest my head in my hand and just look at him. An odd shyness creeps over me. Seeing each other like this, the day after, feels intimate in a different way than last night had.

I watch him, the casual T-shirt, the strong arms. He’s cutting a bagel in two and it’s so ordinary, yet so extraordinary, that I laugh.

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