Page 31 of Enticing My Off Limits Billionaire

And that's the first time I let myself have that thought—that I'm falling in love with him. I don't just want to be with him for the sake of some stupid revenge plot against my dad.

This is real.

And I may have already fucked it up.

Stanley winds around Quinn's ankles, and that alerts Quinn to my presence. He looks back from where he's standing at the stove, wearing an outfit not unlike mine—basketball shorts with a tattered old concert tee. He flashes me a smile and gestures at the coffee pot with his free hand, though I've already located it with the power of my nose alone.

"Coffee's ready if you want some," he says. "Figured you would probably need breakfast after the night you had."

I hang my head and shuffle forward, then I grab a mug from next to the coffee pot and pour myself a cup. "Creamer?" I ask.

"Fridge."

I open the fridge door and find the creamer right away; the rest of his fridge is fairly empty except for breakfast items, takeout boxes, and a few craft beers. I get the impression he's not one for cooking.

Typical lifelong bachelor, I guess.

I get myself some creamer, and then I take my coffee to the table, sitting down in the same spot I did last night. Stanley hops onto the table like he did before, and I reach out to scratch him behind the ears, the cat purring loudly.

"Is he on the table again?" Quinn asks, scowling back at the table. "Stanley, get down."

The cat doesn't respond.

"Let him be," I mumble. "He's living his best life."

Quinn chuckles. "And what about you?"

"Am I living my best life?" I ask. "Absolutely not. I feel like someone's putting an icepick in my temple."

"There's ibuprofen on the table," he says. "Figured you might need it."

I look ahead of my coffee mug with bleary eyes—and as promised, I find a bottle of ibuprofen. I grab it and tap three tablets out into my palm, swigging some of my coffee to swallow them.

"Thanks," I croak, rubbing my right eye. It does feel terrible. "I was pretty drunk last night, huh?"

"You were," Quinn says.

He doesn't follow it up with anything.

Enough said, I guess.

He turns off the stove and puts a few things on plates, and when he turns around, he's got two spreads of delicious breakfast. He puts one down in front of me, and I can't help but lick my lips at the sight of scrambled eggs, bacon, and a bagel.

"Do you have cream cheese?" I ask.

He scoffs. "I'm a New Yorker. Of course I have cream cheese."

He pulls some out of the fridge and passes it over to me with some utensils, and I dig in right away. The bacon is like a balm to my hungover soul, the salt easing the pain of my headache—or at least, I tell myself that's what's happening.

As far as I'm concerned, bacon is magic.

We sit and eat in silence for a few minutes, which I'm grateful for. When I'm hungover, there's nothing I want more than to sit quietly and get through it, wolfing down whatever food and coffee someone puts in front of me. I can feel the tension between us, though, and I slow down toward the end of my plate purely for the sake of delaying the inevitable.

Because there's one thing I know for sure: Quinn was sober last night.

He was sober, and I drunk-texted him, came onto him, insisted on staying at his apartment, and kissed him.

This might be my last personal interaction with him...and I want to drag it out as long as I can.

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