The scent of coffee drifts through the air. It snaps me from my thoughts but only because if there’s coffee, he’s still here.

I slip out of bed, grab his discarded dress shirt from last night, and pad barefoot toward the kitchen.

Jase is standing at the counter, his back to me, a mug in one hand, the other running through his messy, still-damp hair. He looks good like this—undone, bare, real. But there’s tension in his shoulders. What’s so heavy that it surrounds him now?

“Morning,” I say softly.

He turns, his eyes locking onto mine, and for a moment, neither of us speaks. There’s too much unsaid between us, too much weight pressing down on what should be simple.

“Morning,” he finally says, his voice rough. He watches me for a beat, then gestures to the coffeepot. “Made enough for you.”

It’s a small thing, a simple thing, but it makes me smile.

I step forward, pouring myself a cup, trying to ignore the way his eyes track my every move. “About last night . . .”

Jase exhales heavily, setting his mug down. “What about it?”

“You’d had a rough day. I pushed you. We . . . I don’t know. I don’t want you to . . .”

He offers me a lopsided smile, those dimples deepening in each cheek. “Are you saying you regret it? And if so, which part particularly? Fucking in the women’s lounge at the gala or riding my face here at home?” He takes a step toward me and slides his hand down my chest where his shirt is unbuttoned.

My body heats immediately. I’ve never believed that such a visceral reaction was a real thing. I always thought it was pretend shit for movies or romance novels.

Then again, aren’t I living in a pretend world right now?

He leans in closer. I can smell the soap from his shower. “For the record, I don’t regret a goddamn thing.” He winks and presses a kiss to my cheek as if this is the most normal conversation in the world. “And neither should you.”

“Oh.”

“I love when you make that sound.” He pats me on the ass. “I have to get to the studio. I had an idea this morning, which is why I’m up so early.”

“Baker’s hours,” I tease.

“Seems fitting.” He hisses as his coffee burns his tongue. “Dinner at home tonight? Together?”

I falter in taking a sip. That’s the first time he’s asked something like that. “You’re not meeting up with the guys to write?”

“Are you telling me you don’t want to have dinner with me, Cookie? I mean, I’m a man. I can take it if so, but my ego’s going to be a little bruised.”