She wasn’t quite sure how to feel about that.

Then Cade spoke.

“I think this is the first time I’ve ever used this table,” he said against her neck.

Brooke began to laugh. My God, he was still inside her and she was already giggling. “I take it you don’t do a lot of formal entertaining.”

He pulled back, his dark hair falling across his forehead. “Were you not entertained, Ms. Parker?”

It was something about the playful way he said it, the affectionate way he gazed at her right then. Suddenly, she felt the urge to wrap her arms around him and never let go.

Careful, girl.

Easy and fun—that’s all this was.

No problem.

Sixteen

CADE BLINKED WHEN he opened his eyes, not expecting his bedroom to be so bright with midmorning sun. Then again, it had been a really long night.

In every hot, hope-the-neighbors-didn’t-hear-but-damn-that-was-some-great-sex sense of the word.

He looked over at Brooke, sleeping on her side next to him with her dark blond hair spilling over her bare shoulders. The sight brought a smile to his face, thinking how sweet and angelic she looked right then.

She’d probably skin him alive if she knew he was thinking that.

He’d begun to suspect that there was a softer, vulnerable side of Brooke Parker. She tried hard to conceal it underneath her dry-humored, nothing-gets-to-me exterior, but he’d seen a few glimpses of it here and there.

He got it. Lots of people—possibly everyone he knew—would describe him the same way.

It’s all right here on the surface, he’d told his last ex-girlfriend. What you see is what you get.

But as he peered down at Brooke, wrapped cozily in his bed, part of him couldn’t help but think that he wanted more than just tiny glimpses of her softer, vulnerable side. He wondered what it would be like if she truly let him in. And if he was being honest with himself, that same small part would have to admit that he’d been feeling a little jealous ever since he’d met her friend Ford. Not because he thought there was anything going on between the two of them, but because Ford was clearly in the circle of trust while Cade—despite being the man who’d slept with her—was still standing on the outside, looking in.

The other part of him, however, thought he needed to stick his head under a faucet of icy water, or do whatever else it took to wake up out of this post-sex morning afterglow he was in.

Because to get in with a woman like Brooke, he would need to let her in, too. And that was something he . . . just didn’t do. Wasn’t sure he knew how to do, even if he wanted to.

But he did, at least, know one thing: he rocked the morning-after routine. He quietly got dressed, not wanting to disturb Brooke, and headed downstairs. In the kitchen, he grabbed the ingredients he needed to make a Denver omelette, the specialty of the house, and got some butter melting in a small skillet. He chopped up green peppers and onions and diced the ham, then tossed them into the pan. After that, he cleared off the small breakfast table at which he normally ate and set it for two, then got to work on the eggs.

A few minutes later, as the scents of the sautéed vegetables and ham filled his kitchen, he peeked up from the stove to see Brooke coming down the stairs. Her hair was tousled about her shoulders, her cheeks had a rosy, just-woke-up flush, and she conspicuously wore the same Cubs T-shirt and shorts she’d had on the day before.

“I can’t believe I slept so late,” she said, seeming rather abashed at the notion. She pointed to the stove. “What’s all this?”

“Breakfast.” He nodded at the table by the window. “It’ll just be a minute, if you want to have a seat.”

She seemed surprised by the offer. “Thank you.”

Cade folded the omelette he had cooking on the stove, then slid it onto a plate. He immediately added more butter to the pan, then walked over and set Brooke’s omelette in front of her. He pointed to the items on the table. “Salt and pepper, that’s orange juice in the pitcher, and how about some coffee?”

“Um . . . sure.”

Cade grabbed the pot out of the coffeemaker on his counter and poured her a cup. Then he added the rest of the egg mixture to the pan, expertly lifting the edges of the omelette and tilting the pan as it set. He added the ham and vegetable mixture, and then some cheese, folded the omelette in half, and—voilà—had breakfast for two.

He carried his plate over to the table and took a seat across from Brooke.

“This is quite impressive,” she said.

So she’d noticed. Good. “It’s no trouble,” he said with a wink. He took a bite of his omelette.

Brooke dug in herself, chewing thoughtfully. “Let me ask you something. Do you tailor the breakfast to the woman you’ve just spent the night with, or is it always a Denver omelette?”

Cade paused midchew.

Oh, shit.

Continuing on before he could answer, Brooke picked up her coffee cup and cradled it in both her hands. “Don’t get me wrong, I love a Denver omelette as much as the next girl. But I’m curious whether that’s your thing, or if you try to change up the routine depending on the specific woman. You know . . . like, green pepper because I have green eyes, ham because I’m so funny, and onions for all the tears you’ll shed after I leave.”

She smiled cheekily when Cade threw her a look. Ha, ha.

“It’s called a gesture,” he said. “One that other women seem to appreciate just fine.” This was not the way the morning-after breakfast routine typically went. Usually, the lady in question saw him working at the stove and was pleased, possibly even a little touched by his thoughtfulness. Often high jinks ensued from there.