Ididn’t have my phone. For once, I didn’t care. Chef sprawled on his back beside me, legs spread, one massive arm thrust under the pillow, the other anchoring the covers. The pale winter light illuminated the broad curve of his forehead, the shape of his lips, his curly lashes, dark against his cheek.

I snuggled into my pillow, relaxed, replete, simply existing in the moment. Fully present in my skin. I didn’t need to check for comments on my blog. I wasn’t worrying about texts from home.

But I did have to pee.

Cautiously, I sat, scooting toward the end of the mattress, holding my breath as I navigated over his feet.

My clothes still lay in a heap on the floor. I jammed them into my laundry bag and glanced at my phone on the dresser. Two messages from Meg—that’s right, she was at the farmers’ market this morning—and . . . Oh God, look at the time. I was going to be late for work. Surreptitiously, I scraped open a drawer.

If I took the phone with me into the bathroom, I could call Meg. I grinned a little. For once, I had something to tell her. I, prickly, unromantic, bad-tempered Jo, had just had wild crazy sexy times with my boss in the shower. And the loft. And it was awesome.

A sound, the merest vibration on the air, made me turn. “Chef.”

The amused look was back. “Eric.”

“Right.” I knew his name from his bio. Not that I’d ever used it. I flushed, clutching my underwear to my chest. Like he hadn’t spent the past few hours exploring everything I had to offer. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I was just . . .”

“Getting dressed.”

“Yeah.” I watched as he turned and descended the ladder. Well, who wouldn’t? He had a butt like a football player. Years of working in restaurant kitchens had made him agile in tight, confined spaces. As he’d already demonstrated this morning. Twice.

He stood before me, a large, naked man, at ease in his body.

“Do you want to, um, borrow a clean T-shirt?” I asked.

His expression climbed from a four to a six on the amusement scale. “I do not think your clothes will fit me.”

“Very funny.” I rummaged in the drawer again. “Here.”

He looked at it for a long moment. Looked at me. Like maybe he didn’t want to wear another man’s shirt. And then, with a shrug, he pulled it over his head.

“I have a lot of them,” I said.

“I see.”

“I buy them big. To sleep in.”

He glanced down at his chest. “NYU,” he read, upside down. “This is where you went to school?”

“Graduate school. Yeah.” Exchanging small talk, the way you did with strangers before you had sex. Something had been lost when I climbed out of bed. I swallowed. “Sorry. I’m not very good at this.”