And what about this attraction he had to her? He could tell from the way she looked at him, reacted to him, that she felt it too.
“Fuck it,” he muttered to himself.
He hadn’t asked her the thing he’d really wanted to. Whether she’d been thinking about him when she’d gotten herself off last night.
He blended the fruit with ice and poured the smoothie into two glasses before poaching some eggs and placing them on wheat bread with slices of avocado on the side.
“Mr. Fluffy? Mr. Fluffy?”
She raced into the kitchen, a towel wrapped around her, her hair dripping. She’d obviously been in the shower and had jumped out to come find her dog?
“Have you seen Mr. Fluffy? I can’t believe I forgot about him. He’s not in my bedroom. I don’t know where he could be…”
He placed a hand over her mouth. “Over there.”
He nodded to the living room. Where Mr. Fluffy sat sleeping in front of the fireplace. The fire wasn’t on, but Spike had found an old rug and set it down there for him.
“Oh, thank goodness.”
“Heard him scratching at your door. Let him out. Fed him. Now he’s sleeping. Again.”
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t hear him. Thank you for looking after him.” She glanced around the kitchen. “Wow. You can cook?”
“Yep. Go get dressed. It’s nearly ready.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“Don’t need to thank me.”
He set everything out and she returned a few minutes later dressed in an ankle-length skirt that was black with red poppies on it and a fitted black shirt. Her hair was pulled back in a pony tail and still dripping down her back. He shook his head.
“Sit.”
She sat on a stool and he left to grab a clean towel. When he returned, she wasn’t at the counter but was crouching, talking to that ridiculous dog.
“Come here.”
When she grew close, he lifted her back onto the stool.
“Oh. You need to stop doing that.”
He grunted. Seemed to him that the only way he could get her to do what he told her was to pick her up and move her around himself.
Grabbing her ponytail between the ends of the towel, he squeezed, drying it off.
“I can do that.” She tried to turn, to take the towel, but he held it out of her reach and gave her a look.
She sighed but turned around again, letting him dry her hair until it stopped dripping.
“Gonna catch a cold, going around with wet hair.”
“Pretty sure that’s just a myth. A cold is a virus. You don’t catch a cold from being cold.”
Another grunt.
“It was really nice of you to cook, but I don’t really eat breakfast.”
She would while she was here.