When I wake up the next morning, I still have a smile on my face, and I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed a sleep that restful.

Every inch of me is relaxed, and I the morning sunlight warming my exposed skin makes me feel even more decadent. I stretch, then slide my hand over to the other side of the bed, the smell of Claire’s hair still all over the bed.

But the bed is empty.

I crack my eyes open and look at the roughly Claire-shaped imprint in the sheets, then slowly push myself up, frowning.

Did she leave so soon? I run my hand through my hair and get up to my feet, looking around with my bleary eyes.

Right about then, the smell of something wonderful reaches my nose. A smile comes right back to my face. I put on my boxers and let the aroma lead me into the kitchen.

Inside, I see Claire standing over the stove, dressed in nothing but one of my t-shirts, which is so big on her that it almost entirely covers her ass.

“Well look at you,” I say in a voice still thick with sleep, “you beat me to my idea.”

When she turns her head to look at me, it feels like an arrow straight to my heart.

Sunlight is piercing the window and basking her in light. Her blue eyes catch it and sparkle brighter than Caribbean waters, and her hair looks like it’s enchanted. The playful smile on her lips is icing on the cake. I watch her eyes drift down to the half-mast shaft just starting to tent my boxers, a small, seductive smile on her lips.

I approach her in slow strides, my cock growing harder between my legs. I swear that look on Claire’s face just slays me.

“What, you thought you’d let a chef at a Michelin-star restaurant let you start your day without the kind of breakfast you deserve?” she asks as I reach her and take a gentle hold of her hips from behind.

“When she doesn’t even have a decently stocked kitchen to work with? Yeah, I’d say so.” I let my stubble brush against her cheek as I murmur to her in a thick, husky voice.

I can feel the smile on her face against my cheek—it makes my heart pound faster. She’s so enticing that I almost don’t notice the food being cooked in front of me.

I peer down at the contents of the cast-iron skillet and feel my stomach growl. “If I were a gambling man . . . onion and arugula frittata?”

“You have a good eye.” Turning and pecking me with a kiss on the cheek, she adds, “And a good nose. And a good mouth.”

“A breakfast restaurant might need to be in order, down the line,” I tease.

“Don’t say that until you’ve tasted it.”

“The aroma alone will bring droves of hungry, sleepy people to line up in front of the restaurant,” I say, squeezing her hips and drawing in a slow, deep breath. The scent of her hair drives me wild, and I feel my shaft growing thick against her ass.

“Careful,” she says, gently pushing her ass back into me. “If we get too excited, I’ll end up burning breakfast.”

“Sometimes I like making messes,” I say, sliding my hands around to her hips and squeezing them gently. I lean close to her ear and whisper, “If this were my dish, it would already be burned to a crisp, and you’d be on the kitchen table.”

I feel a ripple of excitement run through her, and she can’t stop smiling.

This feels nice. I knew that being able to be open with my feelings for Claire would feel good, but this feels refreshing and freeing in a way that’s surprising even to me.

As she serves what’s easily the best frittata I’ve had in years, I decide I’ll have to arrange a lot more of these stayovers in the near future.

Later that morning, when the two of us walk into the restaurant together, I sense a sour mood in the air. Both of us are practically floating on our own little cloud with smiles on our faces, but the staff is hurrying around with a stressed-out energy, and I don’t like some of the glances I get from them.

I make my way into the kitchen with Claire, where Jorge is overseeing some prep work with the rest of the staff. He raises an eyebrow at us as we approach.

“Ah, you made it,” he says coolly. “Got delayed by another interview on the way to work?”

Claire and I laugh it off, but I can sense the bitterness in his words. A quick glance around at how pointedly the rest of the staff is avoiding looking our way tells me that Jorge’s attitude has been infectious.

“I think we’ll survive getting started ten minutes behind schedule,” I say, trying to play it off.

“Mm-hm,” he replies mildly, glancing to Claire. “I noticed your car was here in the morning—much, much earlier than you. Hope you at least cooked him a good meal this morning.”

“Yeah, where’s our breakfast in bed?” another cook calls from across the kitchen, and the staff laughs.

“Alright, alright, let’s cut out the bullshit and act like adults,” I say with more force than was probably necessary. Both Jorge and the rest of the staff seem taken aback by my snapping words. “Let’s get back to work. We can’t lose slack this early in the game.”

Claire gives me a nervous smile, but the tense energy in the kitchen is undeniable.

Shaking my head, I make my way out and head into my office, casting a glance over my shoulder at Claire. I hope she’ll be okay.