Page 116 of The Billionaire's Wake-up-call Girl

More, I think.

“Thank you,” she says.

“For what?”

“Telling me about the bridge.”

My heart soars at this.

She trails her finger down my abs. “And I accept the challenge. I’m going to make an amazing breakfast for you. Right here.”

A few minutes later, we have coffee going, and she’s riffling through my kitchen, disgusted, while I sit on the counter, enjoying the way the long-tail cut of my Oxford brushes against her perfect thighs. She’s all about breakfast, like I knew she would be.

“You have no butter, no oil, no pan.” She spins around to look at me, mystified.

“I told you.”

“What are you doing with the eggs? Poaching them somehow?”

“I thought you were the kitchen expert here.”

“Do you microwave water and poach them like that?”

“You can do that?” I ask.

She narrows her eyes. “You’re not hiding kitchen stuff?”

“What? No. This is all I have. Coffee maker and a blender.”

“Have you been throwing the eggs off the balcony at people? Is that what you use them for?”

“I blend them,” I say. “It all goes in the blender. Veggies. Raw eggs.”

“What? Yuck.”

“Food is fuel. Not recreation.”

“Are you one of those people who wouldn’t eat at all if you didn’t have to?” She holds up a hand. “Don’t answer that. God, at least you’re consistent. What if you want meat? Don’t tell me you put that in the blender.”

“It’s called restaurants,” I say.

She presses her hands to the counter, thinking.

“You’re hot when you’re stymied.” I jump down and slide my hands around her waist.

In the end, my shitty kitchen is no match for her. She poaches eggs in a coffee cup full of boiling water while we wait for a delivery of a loaf of warm rosemary bread from a bakery she has a catering relationship with.

The concierge texts, then comes up with it. And I’ll admit, it smells like heaven. She cuts the bread and toasts the pieces over the gas burner and puts the poached eggs on top.

“Ordering isn’t fair,” I say, biting into the insane deliciousness of the simple meal.

“I know,” she says. “But please. What you’re doing? It’s like those pills that astronauts used to eat for food.”

“Astronauts are efficient.”

“Why don’t you just feed yourself to the worms and get it all over with?” she asks. “That would be even more efficient.”

“Because I have things to do. I have to nail this deal with Locke,” I say. “I need to develop the dehydrated version.”

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