“Stop it.”
She took a sip of coffee and stayed quiet, but inside she was seething. It was easy for him to ignore the issue away. He had a six-figure salary and everyone’s unwavering respect. He could bang a transsexual pole dancer, and people would just quietly murmur that he deserved his privacy.
But not someone like her—if news like this got out, she would be that girl. The one who was sleeping with her boss to get ahead. The cocktail-waitress-turned-secretary who’d seduced the CEO. The slut.
“Sorry,” she said finally. “I think it’s better if I just go.”
He nodded slowly, and she stifled the wave of hurt that he’d agreed so readily. She handed him the coffee mug and grabbed her pile of clothes.
“May I use your bathroom?” The idea of putting on dirty underwear didn’t exactly appeal, but she could hardly go skipping back to her apartment wearing nothing but a man’s business shirt. She also wasn’t sure how she was going to get her car, which she’d left at the park. But she wasn’t about to ask him for a ride. She’d have to spend the upcoming week’s Starbucks money on a cab.
More reason to be mad at Gray. He was depriving her of skinny vanilla lattes and her self-respect.
Ten minutes later, she’d done the best she could with the wrinkled clothes and raccoon eyes and ventured quietly into his kitchen. Her inner five-year-old wanted to make a dash for the front door, but that would only make Monday morning more awkward, so she opted for a quick and painless farewell.
She should be used to the sight of Gray behind the stove by now, but seeing him cook some sort of elaborate-looking egg dish had her shaking her head. Really, how was a rich and handsome chef not married by now?
Sophie cleared her throat in the doorway, feeling more awkward in front of him this morning than she had in that elevator months ago. “I left your shirt on the bed. I figured you’d probably want to dry-clean it or something.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Didn’t you wear it for less than two minutes?
“Well, yeah, but…it probably smells like girl.”
“There are worse things.” His gray eyes crinkled slowly around the corners and it was almost enough to have her falling into his arms and begging him to love her just a little bit.
“Well, I’ll be going, then,” she said with a smile she didn’t feel, jerking her thumb toward the front door, feeling like a fool. Like he didn’t know where the exit was.
His face went flat again. “At least have some eggs. I’ve made enough for two.”
Whatever he was making smelled amazing, but she couldn’t handle sitting next to him, sharing a meal as though they were in a relationship of some kind. This had been a mistake, pure and simple. The sooner they ended it, the better they’d both feel.
“You don’t have to do that, Gray. I appreciate the gentlemanly approach this morning. Most guys would have made up some excuse about having their mother stop by to get me out of the house, but we both know that last night was…”
Wonderful, intense, the best sex of my life.
“A mistake,” she finished.
He ignored her and slid the omelets onto two plates before carrying them to his dining table. They’d always eaten at the island before. The kitchen table seemed far too intimate.
“Come sit,” he said, already digging into his food. “It’s getting cold.”
Sophie chewed her lip and glanced toward the front door. Maybe just a few bites. Just so that she could explain to him that this could never happen again and that he couldn’t tell a soul. She dropped into the chair across from him and watched him. He was eating his mushrooms and eggs very precisely, as though completely unaware that he had company.
“You eat your omelet with a knife?” she asked.
“It’s called Continental style. Europeans do it.”
“Which would totally make sense. If you were European.” Sophie dug into the decadent-looking breakfast, ignoring the knife like a normal American.
“So what do you want to do today?” he asked casually.
Sophie’s fork clattered to her plate. “Don’t do that.”
He finally set his silverware aside and looked at her. “I want you to stay.”
“Why?” she asked, genuinely puzzled.
“I want to spend time with you.”
“Since when?”
“Since—just, I don’t know. Please?”
Somehow his sulky, frowning expression was infinitely more effective than puppy-dog-style begging or standard-issue flattery. She knew instinctively that he didn’t want to want her to say. That he was just as annoyed by this connection between them as she was, but every bit as reluctant to let it end.
“If I stay, are we going to talk about us?” she said around a succulent mushroom.
“What do you think?”
“Right. You’re not so much about the talking. But we can’t just ignore it.”