I woke and the light was trying to force its way through my shades.
I was back in the position I’d woken up in yesterday, tight against Luke’s side, arm wrapped around his abs, leg thrown over his thighs.
Shit.
I tilted my head and looked at him to see that he was still asleep. I didn’t have clear vision but even with the mini-blur his face in sleep somehow still looked hard.
I rolled away and he moved into the space I left. I stilled and looked at him but he didn’t wake.
I grabbed my glasses (kickass, black-rimmed, oval-framed, D&G) from the nightstand, yanked my thin, yellow-green, cotton cardigan off the hook on the back of the door and got the hell out of there.
I went to the bathroom, washed my face, brushed and flossed and settled my hair in a less messy but still tangled bundle on top of my head.
I put on my glasses and shrugged on the cardigan as I went downstairs to the kitchen, grabbed myself a cold diet soda from the fridge and started some coffee. I cut up fruit, enough for both Luke and me, tossed his in a bowl and put it in the fridge. I dumped a couple of globs of yogurt on mine, sprinkled it with my homemade granola (delicious with tons of sesame seeds and almonds) and did what I did every morning when it was semi-warm.
I took my bowl and diet soda, went to the back porch, sat on the bright cushion of my wicker loveseat with my heels to the edge and my knees pointed skyward. Then I stared at the sun hitting my yard and, while eating, planned my day.
First up, get rid of Luke.
Second, go workout with Riley.
Third, get some work done.
Fourth, learn how to become a lesbian.
“Babe,” I heard and my head twisted to see Luke standing in the door to the porch wearing nothing but his cargo pants, belt not done (and neither was the top button) and an intriguing trail of black hair disappearing into his waistband.
God, he was f**king hot.
So much for becoming a lesbian.
“Hey,” I said.
He gave me a sexy half-grin.
I got up and walked to him. He moved out of my way as I went into the kitchen and put my empty bowl in the sink.
“You want coffee?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
He was standing, arms crossed, hip against the counter, watching me move.
Ee-yikes!
I pulled down a cup ignoring his eyes on me (or trying, and, admittedly, failing). “You want some breakfast? Fruit, yogurt and granola?”
“Sounds good.”
I nodded and poured coffee.
“Do you take sugar or milk?”
“Black.”
I nodded again and handed him his coffee without looking at him. Then I went to the fridge to get his fruit and the yogurt, all the while gabbing.
“Sofia tried to start drinking coffee at twelve, she thought it was cool,” I told him just for something to say because I was flipping way the hell out. I set the bowl down, grabbed a spoon from the drawer and opened the yogurt. “Mom told her, if she did she would grow chest hair.” My eyes moved to his chest then lifted to his face. “When did you start drinking coffee?” I asked.