Page 48 of Heart Breaker

I look over at him and once again my eyes betray me, dipping lower… then lower.

His mouth curves slowly. “See something interesting?”

I snap my gaze upward. “No.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m hungover.”

A devious smile spreads over his face, and I have the overwhelming urge to punch him.

“Lottie?” he says.

“What?”

“You were absolutely staring at my dick.” He grins.

“I hate you,” I cringe.

EIGHTEEN

Wes

Lottie is sitting at the kitchen island while I’m making her breakfast when I realize two things very quickly. First, midnight therapy wine is far more dangerous than either of us anticipated. And second, hungover Lottie might actually be the cutest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

She’s still in my T-shirt, one cheek pressed dramatically against the cool marble countertop while she squints suspiciously at the cup of orange juice sitting in front of her. Her hair is still tangled from sleep, falling around her face in soft, messy waves. Every once in a while, she lets out a tiny groan under her breath that makes me fight back a laugh.

I’m trying very hard not to stare at her. I’m failing pretty badly.

Something about seeing her here like this—bare legs swinging lightly against the stool, wearing my shirt, sleepy and comfortable in my kitchen—does something strange to me. It feels a little dangerous. So dangerous, it’s making me feel I could get used to this pretend marriage of ours frighteningly fast.

“You’re staring again,” she mutters without lifting her head.

I flip bacon in the pan. “You’re being dramatic again.”

“Oh, sorry. I’m just actively dying.”

“Still?” I shake my head smiling. Fuck, she makes me laugh “You said that ten minutes ago.”

“Things have escalated since then.”

“Do you think you can muster up the strength to eat breakfast? Or will I need to spoon feed you your bacon?”

“Don’t make me laugh,” she groans. “My skull feels loose.”

“Pretty sure that’s not medically possible.”

She cracks one eye open just enough to glare at me. “You’re being very unsupportive for someone who is responsible for my current condition.”

I’m tempted to argue, but because I am the idiot who agreed to open a second bottle of wine after midnight, I guess I’m partly to blame. To be fair though, when she looked at me over the rim of her glass like that, all flushed cheeks and soft smiles and warm eyes, I lost the ability to make good decisions.

I move around the kitchen as the eggs cook on the stove, catching her watching me every few seconds when she thinks I won’t notice. Her gaze drifts over my bare chest once, then lower before she quickly jerks her attention back to her orange juice. Interesting. A slow grin threatens the corner of my mouth. God, she’s cute when she’s embarrassed.

I reach for the electrolyte packet beside the counter and tear it open, then pour it into her drink. The powder fizzes immediately, and Lottie narrows her eyes at the glass like I’ve just dropped poison into her juice.

“What is that?” she asks, one eyebrow raised.

“Electrolytes.”