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“I’ll delete it if you want,” I offered.
“Your phone, your choice.”
I tilted my head to look at it again. The picture of him flexing for me was perfect in a goofy sort of way. “I’ll keep it until I get a better one of you.” I didn’t intend to ever delete this picture and what it represented—the first morning-after.
He shrugged again. “Whatever.”
He rushed back to the stove to tend to the frying pan, but didn’t dance the way he had before.
“You always dance when you cook?” I behaved myself and passed on the second opportunity for a non-PG picture of him. The image had already been burned into my memory.
“Only on good mornings.”
“Good?”
“Sorry, great.”
His words sparked hope in me. Things had moved so fast last night. A guy like him had surely been with dozens of more-experienced women than me, and some guys graded, didn’t they? He’d saidgreat, so that had to be a B-plus at least.
I walked up and wrapped my arms around him. “I’m happy too.” I peeked over his arm, and he seemed to be overcooking the French toast. “I’ll take mine a little less done, if that’s okay.” The feel of my breasts against him brought back a surge of memories from last night—all the ways he’d kissed me, licked me, touched me, and…
“Trust me, Nickels, I know what I’m doing, and this is almost ready, if you’ll get the plates. Maybe next time you can choose the menu.”
Reluctantly, I let go of him, brought my focus back to this morning, and gathered up the plates and silverware.
He brought the toast over and placed a few on each plate. “My own recipe.”
The slight tenting of his apron showed I wasn’t the only one who’d flashed back to last night during our hug. I joined him at the table and only added a drizzle of syrup before trying a darkened piece.
It wasn’t overcooked at all, and the flavors surprised me. “Mocha?”
“With a bit of cinnamon,” he said with a smile.
I quickly cut another piece. “This is great.”
“Only the best for the lady of the house.” He forked a bite. “Now, what did you want to argue about?”
“Huh?”
We’d had a wonderful night together. Why would I want to start an argument?
He waved the fork with French toast on it at me. “I gave you the choice of arguing last night or this morning.”
Except for being tired, nothing came to mind. “I don’t have any complaints. So I lose a turn?”
“Just following through on a promise.”
I shook my head. “You’re a goofball, you know that?”
“I always keep my promises, and there’s nothing funny about it.”
That seemed obvious, yet it was still unexpected. I devoured my scrumptious breakfast, wondering why I’d never thought of mocha French toast. Every time I looked up, I found Josh’s eyes on me—sometimes my face and sometimes my pokey nipples showing through the thin cotton. It should have made me self-conscious, but instead I felt desired, and chose to own it. I sat up straighter and kept my shoulders back to accentuate the effect.
“We need to talk about work,” he said as he swirled his last bites through the syrup.
I didn’t want people at Rossi’s knowing I was bedding the boss. Even though I was the founder’s granddaughter, I’d still be judged.
“Yeah, you being the boss makes this complicated.”
