Page 66 of The Puck Contract

He squints at the window. "What time is it?"

I fumble for my phone on the nightstand. "Just after eight."

"Shit." He sits bolt upright, sheet pooling around his waist. "I have class at nine-thirty."

"Plenty of time," I assure him, trying not to stare too obviously at the expanse of golden skin now on display. "You want breakfast?"

The offer hangs in the air for a beat too long. This is delicate ground, I realize. Offering breakfast could seem presumptuous, like I'm pushing for more than he's ready to give.

"I mean, you don't have to," I backpedal. "Just thought you might be hungry."

"No, breakfast sounds good," he says, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. "Thought you might be trying to get rid of me."

"If I wanted to get rid of you, I'd have set the fire alarm off at 6 AM like Becker does when he has regrettable one-night stands."

This startles a laugh out of him, breaking the tension. "Does he really?"

"How do you think he got that noise complaint record from the condo board? His hockey skills?"

Mateo shakes his head, amusement dancing in his eyes. "You're terrible."

"So I've been told." I sit up, aware we're both still naked under the sheets. "Shower's all yours if you want it. Clean towels in the cabinet. I'll start coffee."

"Thanks," he says, then hesitates. "Do you have a spare toothbrush?"

"Drawer under the sink. Still in the package."

He raises an eyebrow. "You keep spare toothbrushes for overnight guests?"

"My mom stocked my bathroom last time she visited. She's still in the 'my gay son must be promiscuous' phase of acceptance." I roll my eyes. "Little does she know I'm practically a monk."

"A monk," he repeats skeptically, gaze dropping to the impressive morning wood tenting the sheet over my lap. "Right."

I grin, unashamed. "A monk with excellent circulation."

He laughs again, gathering the sheet around his waist as he slides out of bed. The flash of self-consciousness surprisesme—last night, he'd been anything but shy—but I respect it, pointedly looking away as he makes his way to the bathroom.

"I'll just..." I gesture vaguely toward the kitchen. "Coffee. Food. Things."

The bathroom door clicks shut, and I flop back on the bed, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. What the actual fuck am I doing? This is not how the fake boyfriend arrangement was supposed to go. This is not keeping a professional distance. This is not smart or cautious or sensible.

But apparently my dick doesn't care about smart or cautious or sensible, because it's still standing at attention, eager for a round two that may or may not be on the menu.

The sound of the shower starting forces me into motion. I throw on basketball shorts and a t-shirt, then head to the kitchen to make good on my breakfast promise.

By the time Mateo emerges, hair damp and wearing yesterday's clothes, I've got coffee brewed and I’m in the process of not completely destroying an omelet.

"Smells good," he says, accepting the mug I offer. He takes a sip and makes a satisfied noise that does terrible things to my concentration. "Perfect. How'd you know how I take it?"

I flip the omelet with more focus than strictly necessary. "You put the same ungodly amount of sugar in your coffee every time. It's not exactly a state secret."

"You noticed," he says, and there's something in his voice that makes me look up.

He's watching me with an expression I can't quite decipher. Surprise? Pleasure? Wariness? Maybe all three.

"I notice a lot of things about you," I admit, then immediately want to punch myself in the face. Could I sound more like a serial killer? "I mean, not in a creepy way. Just... y'know."

"I know," he says, biting his lip to suppress a smile. "It's nice."

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