Page 113 of IRL: In Real Life
“French toast, cream of wheat, and steak.”
“Don’t say it like you’re judging me.”
“I’m not judging you.” His gaze dropped once, lower than my face, then came back darker. “I want to eat all three.”
I bit my lip.
His mouth.
His tongue.
Those big hands on my thighs while I opened for him all over again.
I looked down at my plate because my face was not to be trusted.
“Talia.”
His voice had dropped.
“What?”
“That thought crossed your face.”
“It did not.”
He laughed under his breath. “You lying.”
I looked up then, and that was my mistake.
Whatever had been simmering between us over breakfast sharpened all at once. The coffee, the plates, the harmless little bowl of fruit with whipped cream on top—none of it looked innocent anymore.
He stood and came around the island slowly, giving me plenty of time to stop him.
I didn’t.
“Micah.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re not even pretending anymore.”
“No.”
He turned my stool until I faced him fully. By the time my knees parted for him without being asked, my breathing had already changed.
One hand settled on my thigh. The other braced on the counter beside me.
“You know what I like about you?” he asked.
“What?”
“You tell on yourself with your eyes.” His thumb slid once over the inside of my knee. “Those pretty amber-brown eyes be saying too much.”
“Maybe I was thinking about French toast.”
“Liar.”
I laughed, thin and breathless. “You are very sure of yourself this morning.”
