She was home before I even got there myself. I’d walked in to find her draped over the couch with Chinese takeout spread over the coffee table, and her nose buried in a book.

“I was hungry,” she said, gesturing toward the food. “You weren’t here to cook,” she added, glancing over the book to narrow her eyes at me.

I slid onto the couch, pulling her legs over my lap, then reaching for the lo mein that still had her fork sticking out of it.

“Maybe I can make it up to you with breakfast instead.” I tried to keep my tone casual, even if there was a desperate ache in my chest for her to say yes, to be there in the morning when I woke.

“I can’t stay.”

“Why not?”

“I just can’t.”

“Not even if I make French toast with challah bread with a side of homemade hash browns and whatever eggs you like?”

Her gaze cut to mine, narrowed because we both knew I was playing dirty. Food was her Achilles’ heel.

“You get up before God does,” she said, flipping her page a little dramatically.

“I’ll sleep in.”

I’d stay in bed all day if she wanted.

“You have work.”

“I’m the boss.”

“Teresa will worry.”

Well, she had me there.

Teresa had herself convinced I had some sort of chronic, incurable disease that required nightly treatments, because she couldn’t think of a single other reason I’d be leaving work early every night after a decade of staying until nine or later.

“She’ll get over it.”

She ignored that for a minute, reading a few pages before glancing back up at me.

“Is it really that much better with challah bread?”

“Darlin’, it’s life-changing.”

To that, she rolled her eyes and snorted.

“You’re getting a little cocky,” she told me as I put the carton back on the table, wanting her more than food.

“Says the woman who licked the plate the last time I cooked.”

“It was saucy still,” she said, lifting her chin.

“You had three servings,” I reminded her, plucking the book out of her hands after she slid the bookmark into place. “And some of mine.”

“I was hungry. All they served at book club was coochie boards.”

A snort escaped me at that as I pulled her legs until she moved to straddle me. “Do you mean ‘charcuterie’ boards?”

“No. I meant coochie,” she said, eyes dancing. “We read an alien romance where the dudes only get to completion if they’ve got their faces buried in the V. Someone thought it would be funny to only serve V-shaped foods. Which meant it was mostly halved fruit and carefully folded deli meat. Oh, and pussy flower cupcakes from the erotic bakery. Those were my contribution.”

“There’s an erotic bakery?”

“Yep. Dicks everywhere,” she said, smile bright. “I know where I’m getting the next bachelorette favors.”