In a husky voice, he says, “Call me honey again.”
I adore it that he’s this big, badass, swaggering military dude who walks around with a gun strapped to his waist most of the time, but me calling him a pet name makes him all gooey.
God, he melts my heart.
I frame his face in my hands and whisper, “You’re my honey.”
He swallows, exhales a slow breath, says in a husky voice, “And you’re my princess.”
I nod. “And now that we’ve established that, please let me up.” Just to sweeten it, I bat my lashes and add, “Honey.”
Connor kisses me tenderly on the lips and then rolls off me. Standing naked at the side of the bed, he holds out a hand. I take it, allowing him to help me up because my injured leg still isn’t one hundred percent solid.
I was in a wheelchair for the first week after surgery, and then on crutches for a few more weeks. I should still be using the crutches but refuse to, even though it hurts to put my weight on my bad leg. I was lucky that the bullet didn’t shatter any bones or tear a major artery, but I have a slight limp, which may or may not be permanent. Only time will tell. Aside from the limp and a dull ache in my thigh in the morning and when the weather is cold, the only evidence of what happened is a shiny pink scar on my thigh about the size of a quarter.
I’ve got a few more invisible scars, but nothing that time won’t heal. Under Connor’s love and protective care, some of the nastiest have healed already.
Trying not to show worry on his face because he knows it makes me crazy when he worries, Connor steadies me when I wobble.
“You good?”
I bite back a gasp when pain spikes through my leg, and then meet his anxious eyes and smile. “Yep. All good.”
I can tell he knows I’m full of shit, but he only nods. We’re both proud and stubborn in the exact same way, which makes some things worse, and other things a lot better. Either way, it’s good to have someone who gets me, warts and all.
It’s even better to have someone who always has my back. To my deep surprise, I love being a team of more than one.
I release Connor’s big hand and make my way to the bathroom, feeling his gaze on me as I go.
He calls after me, “I’ll make some breakfast, yeah?”
“Sounds great. But be sure you make enough. Zeus and I worked up a big appetite!”
His chuckle is drowned out under the sound of cascading water as I turn the knob in the shower and the water comes on.
After my shower, I dry off and head to the walk-in closet. I had no idea when I moved into Connor’s enormous loft in the Meatpacking District of Manhattan that a man whose wardrobe consists almost entirely of T-shirts and cargo pants would have so much storage for clothes. His closet is even bigger than the one in my townhouse in Greenwich Village.
“Breakfast is ready, princess!” Connor shouts.
It’s faint because his loft is approximately the length of a football field, but I hear it and smile. “Coming!”
I throw on a short silk robe, drag a comb through my wet hair, and then make my way from the bedroom across the vast living area, admiring the view of the glistening Hudson River from the floor-to-ceiling windows. I find him in the kitchen, flipping eggs in a frying pan.
I slide onto one of the leather stools at the big oak island in the center of the kitchen. Now I busy myself admiring another view, this one of a big, muscular male wearing black boxer briefs and nothing else, making me breakfast at his ridiculous gourmet eight-burner stove.
I call it ridiculous because as far as I’m concerned, as long as takeout exists, there’s no need for a stove, especially one with eight burners. But as I’ve come to know, Connor Hughes is a man who does nothing by halves.
He turns and looks at me with one eyebrow lifted, a smirk on his handsome face. “I’d ask how you like your eggs, but I already know.”
“Oh? And how’s that?”
He suggestively looks me up and down, waggles his eyebrows, and then drawls, “Fertilized.”
I burst out laughing. “Oh my God, that was awful. You’ve been hanging around Ryan too much.”
He slides the fried eggs onto a plate, adds two slices of wheat toast that have popped up in the toaster, and a few slices of bacon from a plate covered in a paper towel next to the stove, and then presents it to me with a short bow.
I take a bite of the bacon—it’s chewy and meaty, perfectly cooked—and moan in happiness.
Connor rounds the island, sweeps my hair off my shoulder, and kisses me on the temple. “Eat up, sweetheart. You’re too thin.”
I stuff the rest of the bacon in my mouth. Between chews, I say, “That’s probably the most romantic thing a man could ever say to a woman.”
Connor leans one elbow on the island and cups my face in his hand. His look changes from teasing to contemplative. He strokes his thumb over my cheek.