As I pushed off the covers, the door opened. Karl walked in with coffee. Hot and fresh—from the same place he’d bought it yesterday. Even if there’d been a coffeemaker and supplies, he’d have gone out. Having tasted his coffee, I was grateful.

I took a sip and closed my eyes. “Mmm.”

“I bought a few groceries. Eggs, bacon, bread—presuming there’s a toaster.”

“You’re going to make me breakfast too? Wow.”

He gave me a look. “You know I don’t cook.”

“Well, I sure hope this means you plan to try. Expecting me to cook breakfast isn’t a good way to sell this mate business.”

“Does that mean I should cancel the offer on the cabin in the Poconos?”

I laughed and swung my feet out. “I’ll make you breakfast, Karl, but only because it’s your birthday…and because, in comparison to the cabin and baby-making, it seems relatively benign. First, though, I’m having a shower—” The rumble of his stomach cut me short. “Okay, first breakfast.”

“Thank you.”

I headed toward the closet, but Karl tugged me back. “You don’t need that.”

“If you’re asking me to cook you breakfast in the nude then, yes, it is your birthday, but no. Bacon spatter is very, very hot.”

He handed me the button-down white shirt he’d worn the night before.

“Oh, you want me to wear your shirt. Little show of property rights?”

“You can’t just humor me and put it on without comment, can you?”

“At least I didn’t accuse you of wanting your scent on me.”

He helped me into the shirt. “I believe I’ve already accomplished that.”

“Which is why I suggested a shower…”

“I wasn’t complaining. In fact—”

“Don’t say it. Please.” I looked down at the half-buttoned shirt. “Do I at least get to put on panties?”

“It’s my birthday.”

“Gonna milk that for all it’s worth, aren’t you?”

“Gonna try.”

I STARTED FRYING bacon and making toast. The toast would go cold before I put the eggs on, but this was only the first batch. Even without Karl’s grumbling stomach, his pacing would have told me he was starving. So I fed him two slices and that seemed to be enough to let him turn his attention to other matters…like getting his hands under my shirt as I stood at the stove.

At first he just moved his fingers over my thighs and rear, stroking and tickling. Then he eased his fingers between my legs. I flipped the bacon and shifted, and his fingers slid in. I stood there, spatula raised, bacon forgotten…until the stink of burning pork reminded me.

“Distracted?” he said as he pushed his fingers in deeper.

I bit back a moan. “Maybe. But you’re the one who wants breakfast, so if I burn it…”

“Not your fault.”