of coffee. It already had plenty of cream in it and she figured he’d added enough sugar to make him cringe—that one would be hers. “Coffee, Abby?” he asked, still smiling that hot, devilish little grin.
She licked her lips as she closed her hands around the mug, grateful to see that her fingers weren’t shaking. She was shaking . . . all but quivering inside as she lifted the mug to her lips. Still, it didn’t show in her hands, on her face, or her voice as she said easily, “Zach . . . if I’d known I’d get breakfast in bed, I think I would have gone after you ages ago.”
“I’ll do it every damn week if you keep me around.”
Keep you . . . damn it. I’m starting to want just that. “You better be careful. You just might tempt me.” She took a sip of the coffee and it was perfect. She couldn’t have made it any better if she’d done it herself. “You apparently know exactly how I like my coffee.”
“I’ve only been watching you make it since you were sixteen years old,” he said.
She frowned at the edge in his voice and glanced up. “Is everything okay?”
He flashed her a smile. “Couldn’t be better.” He reached for a piece of bacon and held it to her lips. “See? I can do it without making a mess or burning the hell out of my hand.”
She nipped a bite of the end and picked up a piece to feed him. “Not bad, Zach. If you ever get tired of the tattoo biz, I could use a hand with my catering business.”
“Nah.” He laughed softly. “Breakfast is pretty much the beginning and end of my cooking skills.”
The rest of the meal passed in companionable silence, although she was acutely aware of just how much he watched her.
Had he always watched her like that? she wondered.
She thought maybe he had.
But she really wasn’t certain.
One thing she did know was that she rather liked how it felt when he watched her. Liked how it felt being with him . . . like this. It was deeper than what she was used to, but still the same on some basic level. She knew that this was the one person who understood her, knew all of her flaws, all of her foibles . . . and loved her anyway. That, in and of itself, was a wonder. But this just felt . . . more. It felt like . . . everything.
And the thought of that scared her more than a little. So she pushed it aside.
Chapter Eleven
I know how she likes her damn coffee, he thought sourly as he carried the tray into the kitchen.
Yeah, he knew how she liked her coffee.
He knew how she liked her tea, and he knew which kinds she drank, and at what time of the year.
He knew the kinds of wines she liked, the kinds she hated—anything that wasn’t sweet enough to cause a cavity—and he kept her particular favorite on hand at his place even though he couldn’t stand the stuff.
He knew what movies she loved, knew what movies she hated, and he knew what kind of books were likely to get thrown across the room and which ones were going to make her cry, and which ones would make her laugh.
Yes. He knew her.
Dumping the dishes in the sink, he rinsed everything off and loaded the dishwasher, taking those few minutes to try and get the frustration out. It should be a little easier right now, he thought. Should be. He finally had his chance, right? Granted, this wasn’t exactly evolving because he’d been up front or anything . . .
One hand curled into a fist and he realized that was something he had to do. Something he needed to do before this moved too much further.
Now.
He’d go do it now.
He finished up and dried off his hands, mentally bracing himself as he headed into the shower.
Dread curdled in his gut, but if he didn’t do this, he was going to risk fucking it up for good. And he couldn’t risk that. No matter what.
* * *
. . . into the shower . . .
Abigale groaned at the random page she’d found in the journal. Take the damn thing into the shower? It would get ruined.
Except . . . well. That was the point, right?
Wrecking it.
She sighed and kicked her legs off the bed, glancing out the door into the main room. Zach