She had every reason to expect he’d slink home in the early morning hours. And that killed him.

“I didn’t want to go home.” His eyes caught hers and held them, and he saw immediately that she knew what his presence here meant.

Knew that the breakfast was an apology. Or at least the start of one.

She looked away and started to reach for the coffee, but winced. “I feel like I got hit by a bus. I think I used muscles I didn’t even know I had.”

He wiggled his eyebrows as he handed her the coffee cup, his eyes locked on her exposed br**sts. She followed his gaze and rolled her eyes. “Can you hand me a T-shirt?”

Mitchell didn’t move, instead taking a very deliberate bite of bagel. “Why would I do that?”

“Because I’m fairly sure that bagel crumbs on my boobs isn’t going to rate very highly on the sexy factor, and I’d like to get laid again.”

He paused in mid-chew. “By me?”

“That depends.”

“On?”

“On whether or not you get me a damned T-shirt.”

As much as he’d been looking forward to breakfast with a view, he opened the dresser drawer Julie had indicated and pulled out the first T-shirt on top of the pile.

He looked closer, and chuckled. “Minnie Mouse?”

She snapped her fingers. “Give it.”

Mitchell threw the shirt her way before gathering up the ten extra pillows that every woman invariably had lying around and creating a pillow wall for them to lean against.

“I love breakfast in bed, don’t you?” she asked around a mouthful of bagel.

“Not really,” he said, watching her take a big bite. “I hate crumbs in my bed.”

“But this is my bed.”

“Which I’m in.”

Her honey eyes smoked over, making him think of whisky by the firelight. “Do you plan to be a frequent guest?” she asked huskily.

“Am I invited?”

“Depends. Am I still just a fling?”

She gazed at him steadily, and he realized that even if he told her yes, that she was a fling, she’d deal with it. Probably even accept it as her due.

Damn if that didn’t just tear at his heart a little.

He wanted to disrupt her. Turn her low expectations upside down. What that meant for his deal with Colin, he didn’t know. He’d figure it out later.

But for now . . .

“Want to get crumbs in my bed tomorrow?” he said, brushing a strand of hair off her cheek.

She took a sip of coffee, watching him warily. “What about answering my question about being a fling?”

“I thought I just did.”

He held his breath, and then let it out in a whoosh when she gave a slow, happy little smile. And just like that, he was forgiven. He should have known it would be that way with Julie. She wouldn’t demand endless explanations or indulge in prolonged talks. There were no games with Julie.

Just straightforward communication and sweet forgiveness.

“Why, Mitchell Forbes, are you invitin’ me over to your pad?” she asked in her best southern belle voice.

“I believe I am, little lady.”

“I accept. Are we defiling another nightclub first?”

Mitchell took a deliberate sip of coffee, finding he couldn’t quite meet her eyes. “Actually, I was thinking we should stay in tonight.”

Julie froze. “Oh?”

He took a deep breath and pushed Colin and box seats at Yankee Stadium out of his mind. For now.

“Yeah,” he said, giving her a half smile. “Now tell me, how do you feel about butter on your popcorn?”

* * *

“I told you we should have ordered the pizza.”

Julie stared down at the plasticky mess. “But this was a frozen pizza. Grace said it was supposed to be easy.”

Mitchell picked up the box and gave it a wry glance. “Did Grace also mention that you’re supposed to remove the plastic? Because the box does.”

“Let me see that,” she said, snatching the box.

Sure enough: Remove plastic before placing in oven. It was even in bold.

So much for her second attempt at domestication. It hadn’t gone any better than her chicken attempt, and that at least had required real chopping.

“Also,” Mitchell added, poking the pizza disaster with a tentative finger, “I’m pretty sure that broil and bake are not interchangeable.”

They aren’t?

“Well, that’s just great,” she said grumpily. “I’m so glad you have all these advanced kitchen skills you decided not to share.”

There was a knock at the door.

“Who’s that?” she asked.

Mitchell planted a quick peck on the top of her head as he slid past her to grab his wallet from the counter. “Pizza guy.”

Julie’s mouth dropped open, even as her appetite surged in gratitude. “What do you mean, the pizza guy? When did you order pizza? I told you on my way over that I had dinner planned.”

“And that’s when I called the pizza guy,” he called over his shoulder.

Julie’s lips pursed in thoughtfulness as she swept her failed pizza into his garbage can. She was certainly racking up ideas for her article today.

How to get him to invite you over: Ply him with wild sex and half-naked eating in bed.

How to know when he knows you: When he’s formulated a solution to your screw-ups before they even happen.

“What kind did you get?” she asked, pulling plates out of his cupboard.

“Some greasy meat special. Grab a couple of wineglasses, would you?”

She complied, her hand faltering slightly as she realized she knew exactly where to find them.

Another first. Knowing her way around a man’s kitchen.

Mitchell plucked the glasses from her hand as he pulled a bottle from his built-in wine rack. She grabbed the pizza box, the plates, and a roll of paper towels and followed him to the couch. They settled side by side, their arms companionably moving above and below each other’s as they got situated with pizza and wine.

Mitchell reached for the remote when they both had a full plate and glass, and Julie froze as the realization swept over her.

This was it.

This was movie night.

She waited for the wave of self-loathing and the depressing suspicion that her sexiest years were behind her.

Instead she felt . . . relaxed. Contented. Happy.

“What are you so smiley about?” he asked, shooting her a glance as he navigated through his On Demand menu.

“Nothing,” she said, giving a smug little wiggle of giddiness. Just happy about you.

“So what are we watching?” he asked, scrolling through the options. “Action, comedy, some stupid drama?”

Julie thought about suggesting the romantic comedy he’d just scrolled past on the menu, but she wasn’t brave enough. There was taking things to the next level and then there was taking things to the romantic-comedy level. She didn’t want to push her luck.

“You pick,” she said magnanimously.

He snorted. “I hate it when women say that.”

“Know what I hate?” she said, watching him rip off several paper towels. “People who dab the grease off their pizza. If you don’t want junk food, don’t order a pizza.”

Mitchell ignored her. “I hate when women tell men to pick a movie, because one of two things invariably happens. Either they make some sort of passive-aggressive comment once he’s happily made his choice, letting her know that she’s disappointed with a capital D. Or they just complain outright the whole damned time.”

She chewed. Considered. Swallowed. “That’s true. Good point. Want me to pick?”

“Hell, no,” he muttered, selecting some war biopic. “I’d rather listen to you whine than suffer through that romantic comedy I skipped.”

Julie glanced at his profile, pleased to see that he looked as relaxed and happy as she felt.

“Can I ask you something?” she said, feeling gutsy as she took a sip of her wine.

“Great, yet another gem from the female set,” he muttered.

“You like sports, right?”

He shot her a startled look. “Sure, most of ’em. Baseball, mostly.”