Page 12 of Crease Collision

I point my fork at him. “It’s not eggs. It’s witchcraft.”

He waves me off. “I know what I am doing.”

“Evidently.” I take another bite and moan as I swallow.

“Careful,” he warns. “I am starting to think you only want me for my cooking.”

“No danger of that.” I give him a look. “I’m well aware of your other skills.” I rub my ass against the counter and don’t bother hiding my wince. “Still feeling them, actually.”

Two twitches of his mouth.

“So this is your move?” I ask.

“My move?”

“Yeah. Show up, wreck a guy’s sleep, make breakfast, and then disappear before it gets weird.”

He narrows his eyes. “Is it getting weird?”

It is, and I don’t know why I like it. I can count the guys who’ve spent the night here on one hand. And I’ve had them out the door by eight, while the coffee’s still hot. I run a tight ship. But now it’s ten-forty. Oskar’s barefoot at my stove, and I’m wearing his shirt.

He pours two mugs of coffee and hands me one. “You need this.”

“For?”

“Recovery.”

It’s much better than any coffee Mom and I had in Norway, and that was the best I’d ever drunk. I sip it while he stands at the window, mug in hand, looking out at a skyline he’s only known for four days.

I consider asking about his new job but think better of it. He doesn’t ask what I do, either. Good. That’s the deal, even if neither of us said it out loud.

If he knew too much about me, he might want to stay.

If I knew too much about him, I might not want him to go.

Instead of talking, I watch him. Half his face is hidden from me, and it isn’t until he turns back that I catch the set of his mouth and the cloud over those fjord-blue eyes. He looks away before I can read his expression.

“Seriously,” he says. “Too weird?”

That’s twice he’s asked. “No. Just… unprecedented.”

He looks at me like he’s trying to figure something out. I hate that I can tell the difference between a guy who’s admiring me and one who’s working through a problem. And I hate that this is the second kind.

“Finish your food,” he says.

“Is that all you’ve got?”

I’m asking for trouble, and a crooked grin tells me he knows it. He takes a step toward me, and I catch his scent before he’s close enough to touch. Sleep and salt. And something else I’d rather not think about.

“What do you want me to say?” he asks.

“I…” The rink in my head goes quiet. Very unusual. “Don’t know.”

He stays where he is while a line of sweat runs down the back of my neck.

“Are you always this annoying in the morning?” he asks.

“What do you think?”