Page 12 of Oops I Fell For The Billionaire Next Door

"I'm applying heat transfer logic to a gourd."

"Get out of the produce section."

"Make me."

Her lips press together. Fighting a smile. Losing. The laugh breaks through and she shoves my chest with one hand, which moves me approximately zero inches because I've got six inches and eighty pounds on her.

"You're impossible."

"You love it."

The word love. Said casually, in a grocery store, between the squash display and the lettuce bin. Her eyes flicker. Something warm. Something careful.

"I tolerate it. There's a huge gap."

But she lets me push the cart for the rest of the trip. And when we get home, she makes soup joumou with the squash just to prove her point. It's the best soup I've ever tasted in my life and I tell her so three times, which she receives with a single raised eyebrow and a "Obviously."

Thursday morning she wakes me up by putting her cold feet on my calves. Dawn light coming through the curtains. Her body curled against my back, small and warm except for those ice-block feet.

"Your feet are freezing."

"Your body is warm. Stop complaining."

"This is assault."

"This is efficient heat transfer. You should appreciate that, Mr. Engineering Principles."

Rolling over to face her, I pull her against my chest. Her leg hooks over my hip. Face to face on the pillow, noses almost touching. Her braids are messy from sleep, her eyes half-lidded, a crease on her cheek from the pillowcase.

"You're beautiful." I say it because it's true and because at six in the morning she can't deflect it the way she does in daylight.

"You need glasses."

"I have twenty-twenty vision."

"Then you need better standards."

My hand cups her face. Thumb across her cheekbone. "My standards are fine. My standards are lying in this bed telling me my feet are cold and my soup opinions are wrong."

Her mouth opens. Closes. She blinks twice. Then she kisses me, morning breath and all, long and slow. Her hand slides into my hair. My palm travels down her spine to her ass, pulling her flush against me. The kiss deepens. She can feel me getting hard against her thigh and she rocks into it, deliberate, humming against my mouth.

"We don't have time," she murmurs. "I have a client call at seven thirty."

"It's six oh four."

"That's not enough time for what you're thinking."

"You don't know what I'm thinking."

"You're pressing your dick against my leg, Beck. I have a general idea."

Fair point. But she doesn't move away. Her hips keep rocking. Slow. The friction building between us until the client call becomes a problem neither of us wants to solve.

She pulls back. Groans. "Seven thirty. On the porch. I can't do it in bed or I'll look flushed on camera."

"I'll make coffee."

"You'll make terrible coffee."