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“Then yes.”

He checked the screen. “Late afternoon.”

“That is deliberately imprecise.”

“I thought I’d ease you back into clocks.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You are enjoying this.”

“A little.”

I held out my hand.

Lucky gave me the phone.

It was later than I would normally have permitted myself to sleep on any day that did not involve surgery, transcontinental travel, or a physician standing over me with written instructions.

I handed the phone back.

“That was a significant nap.”

“It was.”

“And you let me sleep.”

“You were tired. I didn’t see a reason to wake you.”

“That has never prevented anyone from sending me an email.”

“I don’t control your email.”

“You’re losing points as a Property Manager.”

Lucky laughed and rolled toward me, propping himself on one elbow.

His palm settled lightly against my hip over the sweatpants.

“You feel okay?”

“Extremely.”

“Hungry?”

I thought about the waffles, the snowball fight, the shower, the sleep.

“Also extremely.”

“That I can fix.”

“You’re very confident for a man whose refrigerator I haven’t audited.”

“I’ve got enough for a snack. We still have dinner back at your place.”

The leftover pasta.

The cake.

The cake I had helped make, frosted badly, abandoned in favor of Lucky, and then entirely failed to eat.