Page 87 of The KING Review

Fia warned me about this part, I realize, somewhere at the edge of sleep—she said that Grant King would fall in love with me. I wanted to believe it, and I knew it was a possibility all along.

Now, I’m sure it’s happening, and I’m pretty certain I’m falling in love with him, too.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Morning-After Energy

Neve

I’ve always been a morning person, ever since I was a kid, so when I wake up just before 6 a.m., that’s not the reason I freeze when I roll over and find Grant King still, eyes closed, beside me. I blink, watching his handsome face, slack with sleep.

God, he’s pretty.

His dark lashes fan softly as he exhales, casting fluttery shadows across his cheeks in the pale-blue morning light. His auburn hair is mussed, and I can’t help thinking back to tangling my hands in it when I kissed him. It’s a little longer than when I first met him at the bar, but it suits him. I want to kiss him now, but I don’t want to wake him. He looks so peaceful, like none of the things that bother him when he’s awake can touch him.

The silver at his temples catches the light as he shifts in his sleep, turning his head to the side. He has the same silvery gray in his beard, just a little, but enough to notice. It’s impossibly sexy. He is impossibly sexy. I know the age gap is… not small. All of the things Fia said are true. There is no single hurdle to this relationship, but a number of them that stack up against us.

But I feel connected to him in a way I don’t think I’ve ever been connected to another person. I’m drawn to him like he’s magnetic and I’m ferrous metal, pulled in almost against my will—except it’s not against my will. I want this, and I want him, no question.

I like to think I’ve been clear enough about that. I hope he knows that I’m already all in. That doesn’t scare me, but I know it scares him. He’s got more to lose than me. He has not only his job but his daughter to consider, and given his history with his ex, I understand why he’s guarded with his heart.

I’ve never met the woman, but I hate her for what she did to him.

I don’t even know all of it yet, and I don’t know when or even if he’ll be ready to tell me, but I hope he will. I hope that he knows he can trust me with those parts of himself—the parts he thinks he has to hide, the parts he thinks are ugly. I want them all.

I lean in and press a kiss to the cut of his cheekbone, letting my lips linger there. When I pull back, he smiles in his sleep, groaning softly, but doesn’t wake, so I decide to get up in search of coffee.

I swipe one of Grant’s Henleys off the back of a dark green, velvet chair in the corner of the bedroom, then tiptoe out to the hall, closing the door quietly behind me so I don’t disturb him.

I find the things I need easily—Grant’s kitchen is organized as well as I’d expect for someone who spends as much time there as he clearly does. He obviously likes to cook, as if I could find him any hotter.

The kitchen is bright, early-morning blue pouring through the windows. I’m half-swallowed by Grant’s shirt, sleeves dangling past my wrists, hem hitting somewhere risky on my thighs. The air smells faintly of him, a woodsy, mineral cologne and something soft underneath, like warm skin and sleep. There’s a fresh loaf of sourdough on the counter, crumb golden and split open.

I hunt down the coffee supplies—a burr grinder, a scale, a little glass carafe. Of course, he has the pour-over setup, the kind of precision most people reserve for laboratory work. I could just use the pod machine, but I want to do it right, the way he would. Beans go in, coffee dust blooming into the air. The whole kitchen fills up with the sharp, dark smell.

I glance back toward the bedroom as I pour water over the grounds, slow, spiraling, the way I’ve seen on TikTok. Grant is still asleep. I want to keep it that way a little longer. I want him to wake up to something good. I don’t want him to think I expect him to look after me. I like it when he does, but I want him to know I’ll look after him, too. It makes me wonder how long it’s been since someone has, and that makes my chest ache.

I scan the kitchen. There’s a carton of eggs in the fridge, a lemon rolling in the fruit bowl, and half a stick of butter in the dish. I can poach an egg in my sleep. Hollandaise is trickier, but I’ve nailed it at least three times. Four, if you count the time I winged it at Fia’s brunch one time, and nobody got food poisoning.

I roll up my sleeves.

First, eggs. I bring a pan of water to a simmer, dribble in a capful of vinegar. I crack an egg into a mug, swirl the water, slip the egg in, and the white cinches up like a little ghost.

I’m separating yolks for the hollandaise when I hear a soft groan from behind me. “Fuck, Neve.”

My name in his mouth sounds like sin. I turn, slow, suddenly aware that the shirt I’m wearing is his, that it hangs off my shoulders like a flag of surrender, that the only thing between me and the cool air is the soft cotton barely covering my ass.

Grant leans in the kitchen doorway, bare-chested, track pants slung low on his hips, hair a tangle from sleep. It’s the best, sexiest morning-after energy I’ve ever seen.

His eyes drag down my body, slow and greedy.

“Good morning, baby,” I try, casual, but my voice betrays me, all breathy and bright.

He doesn’t move at first, just watches, the green of his irises nearly black in the low light, jaw flexing. “Angel, you can’t just stand there looking like that.”

I glance down because I want to see what he sees. The hem is indecent, and the sleeves swallow my hands, but I kind of love it. I love the way his gaze finds my bare thighs, the way it’s blatantly obvious I’m not wearing a single thing underneath. The air hits between my legs, a cool shiver that makes me ache.

He comes closer, slow as a stalking cat. The heat of him crowds me back to the counter, and he reaches over to kill the gas on the stove.