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She sipped the water, knowing he wouldn’t stop insisting until she did. Then she drew back.
He took the cup of coffee and placed it away from her. “No more coffee for you.” Grabbing a napkin, he wiped her face, then the table.
Yikes.
That was embarrassing.
He’d put together the most amazing breakfast. The small breakfast table next to his state-of-the-art kitchen had a white tablecloth on it.
Because, of course it did. Although now that she’d spat coffee everywhere, it was no longer pristine white. Darn it. Those stains were going to be hard to get out.
When she’d gotten up this morning, the place had smelled like pastries and coffee. Walking into the kitchen, she’d been amazed as she’d taken in the plates filled with croissants and Danishes. The bowls of fruit salad and thick, creamy yogurt.
Three types of juice.
Three!
And coffee. Sweet, sweet coffee. Which was now staining the tablecloth.
Yeah, it was probably for the best that he was setting it away from her. She couldn’t be trusted with it.
“Corn and camellias,” she murmured to cheer herself up. At least she hadn’t spilled the coffee down his T-shirt that she was still wearing.
“It’s all right,” he soothed. “No need to swear.”
“I wasn’t swearing.” She gave him a surprised look.
“You said corn and camellias. Isn’t that your way of swearing? Some of that country charm.”
She rolled her eyes at him.
“Watch those eyes, brat.”
Faith shifted around in her seat. She could sit well enough today, but she could definitely feel that she’d been spanked last night.
Waiting until he’d turned around, she poked her tongue out at him.
“And your tongue,” he warned. “Unless you want me to do something else with it.”
Um. She might.
But she put her tongue away in case he wasn’t talking about a blow job. With Reuben, it could be anything.
“Corn and camellias is what I say to make myself feel better. Like words of affirmation. Or thinking about your happy place or something like that.”
“Corn and camellias are your happy place?” he asked.
“Well. Yeah. My family grows corn and I know probably a hundred recipes to make with it. Camellias are my favorite flowers. So I guess you could say that corn and camellias are my love language.”
“I’m your love language,” he muttered.
No, he wasn’t.
But he might well be the man she loved. Perhaps it would be best if she kept her mouth shut, though.
“Okay. Good to know. Your happy words are probably something like destroy and conquer. Or veal and lamb.”
“Why the hell would my happy words be baby animals?” he asked.
