God, I’m hungry.
I flip on the row of pendant lights hanging above the counter, dimming them as low as possible, and beeline for the pantry. Rooting through his cabinets, it doesn’t take me long to find what I’m looking for. I grab the box off the shelf, cross to the refrigerator, and pull out everything I need.
Twenty minutes later, waiting for the pancakes to brown on the griddle, I retrieve my cellphone from my clutch purse and power it on. It doesn’t even faze me to see I’ve got another half-dozen voicemails and texts from Chrissy, but I wince when I realize I’ve missed another call from my landlord. I’ll have to call him back, as soon as it’s a reasonable hour.
There’s a text from my mother —Everything okay, honey?— probably because I’ve been ignoring her texts since the gala. Frankly, I don’t know what to say to her. Or, maybe, I’m afraid of what she’ll say tome, when I ask the questions Phoebe’s necklace-revelation prompted.
Maybe a little of both.
Chrissy’s messages range from forwarded Google alerts —Chase Croft Makes His Societal Debut with New Girlfriend!— to text messages threatening my life, if I don’t call her back with details sometime soon. Nothing unusual.
Which, I take it, means Brett hasn’t leaked the story to Phoebe and the media, yet.
A relieved breath escapes, just as two arms wrap around me from behind and a warm body presses against my back.
“Those are going to burn,” Chase whispers against the nape of my neck, his voice scratchy with sleep.
I turn in his arms, to face him. “Did I wake you?”
His forehead drops to rest against mine. “Felt you gone.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be, sunshine.” His arms tighten in a quick hug, then drop away as he turns, picks up the spatula, and starts flipping the pancakes. For a few minutes, I watch him moving around the stove with ease, his muscular forearms flexing as he wields kitchen utensils, pulls a platter from the cabinet on his left, and starts loading it up with perfect, golden-brown pancakes. There’s something sexy about watching a man cook — especially when he’s wearing nothing but black boxer briefs — and I swear, if I hadn’t already had all the sex my vagina could handle in the past eighteen hours, I’d be jumping his bones on the kitchen floor.
Again.
Chase grins as he slides a plate across the counter toward me, his eyes still a little drowsy, his hair still a little mussed. “Eat up, sunshine.”
“Thanks.”
He pushes the butter and a bottle of maple syrup toward me. “Here.”
“Yuck.” I wince, eyeing the brown bottle. “I hate syrup.”
“How is that even possible? Everyone likes syrup. It’s the best part.”
“Said the man who doesn’t likewaffles.”
“Touché.” He grins. “You know, you still haven’t told me your middle name.”
“Not gonna happen.”
“Come on.”
“Nope.”
“It can’t be that bad, sunshine.”
“Trust me, itcan.”
“You’ll tell me someday.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
He sighs and lets it go.
Fornow.