at the man beside me, and can’t help but smile. His sleep-tousled hair is sticking up adorably, and his normally chiseled features seem softer, more relaxed. I want to kiss him all over.
“Did you sleep all right?” He leans down just inches from my face like we’re old lovers, rests his cheek in his hand, elbow propped up on the bed. He smiles. “I slept very well, thanks to you.”
I blush. “Me too.” Better than I’ve slept in months, actually. And it wasn’t just the physical connection. With St. Clair I feel something more. But it’s too early to analyze my love life. I need coffee. “Where’s the Joe?”
He points at his chest. “I’m Char-les, remember?” He grins.
“Oh, oops. I must have gotten in the wrong cab last night,” I grin. “These British guys all look the same.”
“Well then I guess I need to be in the wrong cab more often,” he says and pulls me closer.
“Guess so,” I mumble as he brushes his lips across mine. I happily snuggle into his chest and it’s then that I realize what it is about him: I’m comfortable. It’s stress-free to be with him, fun.
Careful, Grace, what happened to keeping it professional? Guess I left it behind when I got in that cab to St. Clair’s apartment last night.
I grin. “But seriously, I smell coffee.”
He shakes his head, mock-disappointed. “You Americans and your precious cups of joe.”
“What about you?” I tease. “You better not tell your neighbors you’ve defected from tea. They’ll take away your citizenship.”
He laughs again and I can’t help but love how easy this is. Part of me worries it’s too good to be true, but I tell that part to be quiet and leave me to enjoy this moment in peace. How can I find true beauty if I’m not willing to hope, to take a chance that fantasies do occasionally come true?
A timer dings from another room and I realize I haven’t even seen the rest of the house, and the living room was dark and much less interesting to look at than St. Clair last night. “That means your coffee has finished brewing.” He squeezes me in a sweet lingering hug and then sits up, the back of his hair sticking out like porcupine quills. It’s like he’s trying to kill me with cuteness.
I sit up, too, finally seeing beyond the fluffy pillows and blankets. We’re on the second floor which I know because all I see out the floor-to-ceiling windows across the room is light, and blue sky, and tiled rooftops stretching for miles. A flock of birds shoots by and in the distance a church bell chimes. “Gorgeous.”
St. Clair stands up. He looks down at me with affection. “Indeed.” He tugs the covers away. “Come on, sleeping beauty. I’ll make you breakfast.”
There’s so much glass in his condo, we might as well be outside. A large skylight above and lots of windows let in natural light that makes everything glow, the morning sun illuminating his many art pieces: a Van Dyck, yet another Picasso. There are also some more recent British artists in his collection here, a bit bolder, more contemporary and freeform, but still amazing.
“Your collection is incredible,” I say as we pass through the living room to the kitchen. The couch we couldn’t make it to last night—a mere four feet away from the door—is soft taupe suede, the walls plain white, and a white wood mantel frames a clean gas fireplace. “Where do you find the time to buy it all?”
“I don’t.” He rummages through a cabinet next to the stove for a frying pan. He finds one and twirls it in his hand as he turns to me. “That’s why I need you.”
I sit at the counter in a bar stool facing him and watch him as he cooks. He’s confident in the stainless-steel clad kitchen, cracking and beating eggs, toasting bread, frying ham and a few tomato slices as I sip my coffee. I try not to imagine how many other women he has cooked breakfast for and just enjoy him doing it for me. And I mean, doing it for me in every way possible, his white robe creating a triangle of smooth chest I want to run my hands over, feeling the definition of his muscles as I move my hands down his abs—
“So I have a surprise for you,” St. Clair says as he puts a plate in front of me.
“A surprise?” A little flurry of