“Maybe do something different.”
Had she really thought that meant her? Ugh.
“Dr. Dumbass reporting for duty,” she muttered under her breath before kicking off the covers and climbing out of bed. For a very intelligent woman, she sure did some stupid things.
Her mood had officially gone surly. Her tiny fluttery butterflies of hope had withered up and died. She had a full day of wreath assembly and booth setup ahead of her. Then there was the stack of grant applications that Mr. Bed Abandoner had offered to help her with. For a second, she thought about just crawling back into bed and pulling the covers over her head until New Year’s Day. That would count as self-care. Right?
But duty called.
She’d start fresh in January. Saying no. Blow-drying her hair. Not getting pillow talk confused with actual relationship plans. All she had to do was survive the next few days and then she could hit the reset button.
As she trudged down the stairs, her internal pep talk was interrupted by the smell of food. Real food. Not microwaved leftover food. The lights were on downstairs, holding back the dark of the winter morning outside the windows.
Mouth watering, she peered over the railing into the kitchen and blinked.
Ryan stood at the counter very precisely arranging parsley over two plated omelets. He was barefoot. His jeans were left temptingly unbuttoned, and he was wearing what she’d dubbed her I Give Up sweatshirt. An oversized Cornell hoodie that had been washed so many times the front pocket had fallen off. On her it looked sloppy. On him it looked hot.
He glanced up and caught her watching him. His smile went straight to her nether regions, making them feel all warm and woozy again.
“You’re here,” she said.
He gave her a hungry look. “I hope you don’t mind that I never found my pants and left last night.”
“I don’t mind.” She sounded as if she’d just run five miles after an ice cream truck.
“It’s your fault for having such a comfortable bed,” he said, with that swoon-worthy half-smirk on his lips. “And for fucking me cross-eyed.”
She tripped over a cat on its way to stare at its food dish and barely managed to not take a header onto the linoleum.
“Nice try, Holly,” Ryan said. “I already fed them and your duck.”
Holly looked down at her empty dish and back up at Sammy with hostility.
“Wow. Thank you,” she said. “Where’s Stan?”
“He’s outside with McClane and the duck. I hope they’re allowed outside because they didn’t give me a choice.”
She floated over to him on the wings of happy hope butterflies. The part of her brain that was warning her not to get too excited was drowned out by a breakfast she didn’t have to cook and fresh coffee she hadn’t had to brew. Both served by the still-here, still-smiling, hot accountant in her kitchen.
“They’re indoor-outdoor,” Sammy explained. “They’ll be back for morning treats.”
At the word “treats,” Holly wove herself in between her legs and pretended not to be evil.
“You said you have three cats,” Ryan said, digging forks out of her utensil drawer. “I’ve only seen two.”
“Hans is cat Number Three.”
Ryan snapped his fingers. “McClane, Holly, and Hans? Did you name all your cats after Die Hard?”
“It’s my favorite Christmas movie.”
He paused and gave her a long, searching look. “You’re telling me that you think Die Hard is a Christmas movie?”
“Yeah. Why? Don’t you like McClane storming Nakatomi Plaza?”
“I have zero issues with Die Hard,” Ryan promised, fisting his hand in her shirt and dragging her in for a kiss.
She melted against him, feeling deliciously female.
“But back to your third cat,” he said, releasing her and handing her a plate. “Why haven’t I seen him yet?”
“Hans is shy. Or maybe he doesn’t live here anymore,” she said, studying the perfectly plated omelet.
They both eyed the table. The chaotic mess of craft supplies had been made exponentially worse by their bodies rolling over it the night before. There was a distinct butt print outlined in glitter.
At this rate, she’d be sparkling until Flag Day.
“Let’s eat on the couch,” Sammy suggested.
They gathered plates and mugs and trooped into the living room.
“Are you saying you aren’t sure if you have a third cat?” he asked dryly.
Sammy pulled her feet under her on the couch and picked up her mug. “He’s this fat, orange cat that’s a master of hiding. I only see him every few weeks. I’ll wake up in the middle of the night, and this big, dumb, orange face is hovering over me. Or he’ll pop out of a kitchen cabinet when I open it looking for cookies. Once, I was in the shower, and I felt someone watching me. I reached for a bottle of shampoo to use as a weapon—”
“Naturally.”
“And I found Hans sitting on the edge of the tub between the conditioner and the body wash just staring at me.”
“Has anyone else ever seen Hans?” Ryan asked pointedly.
“I know what you’re getting at, and the answer will only reinforce your point, so I’m going to go for a distraction instead,” she announced. “What’s the plan for today?”
Did they still have a plan? She wondered.
Was it weird that she wished they were touching?
Was it weird that they weren’t touching?
Was she making it weird by not touching him and overthinking everything?
“The plan is to start with breakfast,” he said, pointing a fork at her.
He wouldn’t have stayed, wouldn’t have cooked if he didn’t like her, right?
Unless he felt some sort of gentlemanly obligation to her since she’d put out and rocked his world. But honestly, out of the two of them, Sammy was confident that was more her modus operandi than his.
They sat side by side on the overstuffed gray couch and dug into their breakfast. The omelet was—like his performance in bed—impressive.
“Oh mah gawd,” she managed around a mouthful of egg, cheese, and tomatoes.
“You’ve mentioned that sentiment a few times since last night,” he said smugly.
“Someone’s got their cocky pants on this morning.”
While they ate, they ignored Holly’s plaintive meows about how she was starving and no one ever fed her. When they were finished, he stacked their plates and utensils on the coffee table next to her clean laundry and rubbed his hands on his knees.
He was nervous. And that made her nervous. She picked up her mug again to give her hands something to do.
“How are you feeling about… everything?” he asked. “Any regrets?”
“None here,” she said, trying to watch his face out of the corner of her eye. “How about you?”
“One,” he said.
He reached for his coffee, sipped, then cleared his throat. Uh-oh. It was coming. The “thanks for last night, but I need to get on with my life” lecture. At least she got two orgasms and a hot breakfast out of the deal. At least he hadn’t just vanished. God, she was tired of “at leasts.”
“Sam. Last night… it made me see things from a different angle. Thank you for that.”