Page 39 of For Her Own Good

Not because he’s built; he’s not, really. He’s that middle-age thickened torso that’s sturdy as hell but with none of the definition other women seem to drool over. I don’t want chiseled, hard muscle. I want thick, solid, warm flesh with strength underneath. And yeah, some chest hair isn’t going to hurt.

Before I can start drooling, he snags a T-shirt from the floor and pulls it over his head. Does he always sleep this way?

“Starla?”

Caught.

“Yeah?”

“It’s six thirty, do you need to get home?”

“Soon, yeah.”

He reaches for the curtain and pushes it aside, letting more sunlight in, and I squint against it. Maybe I was a mushroom in another life. Or one of those cave-dwelling fish or some shit.

“Your clothes are dry and on the bureau,” he says, gesturing with an arm. He must have been busy last night, I don’t remember him getting up at all. “I’ll make you breakfast before you go.”

“You don’t have to do that. Don’t you have to get ready for work?”

“My first patient canceled so I’ve got a bit of wiggle room. And I know I don’t have to but I’m going to. Pancakes or eggs and toast? Or all three?”

Bossy man. But a bossy man who’s going to make me breakfast, so I guess I can’t be too mad. “Pancakes. Please. But only if you have real maple syrup.”

Because I’m spoiled like that. Lowry doesn’t react with anything other than a nod, though.

“Why don’t you get dressed? I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”

By the time I do, I’m mortified anew by what I did last night. And also his response. Reminds me that we’re scheduled to have our regular dinner tonight, and I don’t think I can sit across a table from him again.

He must feel the same way because by the time I settle myself at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, there’s a stack of pancakes on a plate set out with a mug of coffee, a cup of orange juice, butter, and the requested—nay, demanded—real maple syrup, and he’s wiping his hands on a dish towel.

“Help yourself to anything else you’d like. More coffee’s in the pot, there’s fruit and yogurt in the fridge if you’re still hungry.”

I won’t be, since I rarely eat this much in the mornings, but god, it’s sweet of him. “Okay.”

“I’m, uh, getting in the shower now.”

Yep, awkward. So I dig into my hot breakfast, the pancakes fluffy and perfectly cooked, and break out my phone to text Holden.

You know the only thing that would’ve been worse than texting Lowry last night?

Oh my god, you didn’t.

I send him a pic of my half-devoured breakfast with the text “Pancakes at Cafe Campbell” splashed across it because I sure as fuck did.

Oh, honey, no.

Don’t I know it. Can we drink tomorrow night? Please?

Sure can. I’ve got a date with Ben tonight and I think I’m going to tell him I don’t want to see him anymore so that’ll be fun.

Wait, I thought you were dating Anna?

What’s your point?

Fair. Holden for realsies goes out on dates, and with multiple people at a time. I could never, but he seems to enjoy it.

I finish my breakfast, the only noise accompanying my meal the muffled sounds of Lowry getting ready for the day. I start to think about heading out before he returns, leaving a note, because honestly, I don’t think I can deal with seeing his face for a week at least, maybe ever. Except that I can’t even manage that because what do you say to a man who you confessed your love to and he tucked you into bed like a small child and slept at the foot of his bed instead of next to you? Those vaguely warm feelings I’d had about the experience have drained away, leaving me only with shame and mortification. And not a little anger with a glaze of indignation.

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