Rowan

A sliver of light breaks through the curtains of Keir’s room, sending a shock of pain to my head when I come to. Lifting my hand to my temple, I pull in a deep breath and get my bearings.

I shouldn’t have had so much wine last night, but we were having a nice time and I wasn’t thinking about how I was going to feel come morning.

In fact, I wasn’t thinking about anything.

I was just … enjoying myself. Living in the moment, something I don’t do nearly enough.

Slipping one foot off the bed, I gather a bedsheet off the floor and attempt to wrap it around my body in the dark. I suppose it seems silly to be so modest after having sex not once but twice last night, but my head is pounding and I need a break from being some objectified little sex toy.

There’s a time and place for that, and right now I just want to go home, brush my teeth, and take a shower.

“Where you going?” Keir’s groggy voice fills the dark room, followed by his outstretched arm as he hooks it around my waist and pulls me back against him.

“Morning,” I say, trying to pry myself out of his hold.

I don’t understand. I expected him to pretend to sleep as I snuck out. That’s what most guys do after a night like that.

At least in my experience.

Date … dinner … sex … see ya.

For the entire evening, I gave him my undivided attention. I pretended I found him fascinating and magical and enthralling—and I’ll admit he’s more interesting than I gave him credit for—and I hurled invasive question after invasive question at him, trying to take our conversations as deep as he would allow, which would turn most guys off.

Now that I think about it, he never pushed back.

Not once.

I’m going too easy on him.

“Trying to sneak out?” he asks, rubbing his eyes as his full mouth pulls into a tight half smirk.

“Actually, I was going to surprise you with breakfast in bed.” It’s a lousy lie, but I have to think on my feet going off basically no sleep, and I’m trying to scare him off by saying the kinds of things a clingy insta-girlfriend might say.

“What are you making?” he asks, calling my bluff.

What …?

Where’s his excuse? He should be saying he has somewhere to be or he’s meeting someone else for breakfast.

“Pancakes,” I say. “Eggs. You have those, right?”

“I have everything,” he says.

Damn it.

“Perfect.” I force a smile and try to remember where most of my clothes are. “Care if I borrow a shirt? I don’t want to cook in my dress.”

“Middle drawer, left side.” He points to a large chest of drawers across the room.

“Thanks, babe.” My back is to him, so he can’t see me cringing when I call him “babe.”

“Anytime, sweet cheeks.”

I almost choke on my spit. Keir Montgomery is absolutely not the kind of man who doles out pet names for the women he screws.

What is this madness?

It’s like we’re playing a game of chess and he’s copying every move I make.

I don’t understand …

Grabbing a white cotton t-shirt from his drawer, I tug it over my head and pull at the hem. It falls just pass my ass.

“How do I look?” I prance around his dark room, playing the part of “cute girlfriend.”

“Adorable.” Keir sits up, runs his fingers through his messy dark hair, then stands.

God, he’s beautiful.

A work of art.

Truly.

“Okay, I’ll just be in the kitchen …” I point toward the door. “By the way, what did you want to do after breakfast?”

That ought to scare him. No man wants to spend his entire Saturday with a stage five clinger.

He drags his palm across his five o’clock shadow, glancing across the room as his brows narrow. “Hadn’t thought about it. What are you up for?”

No!

Why isn’t this working?

“I just want to spend the day with you,” I say, lashes fluttering and all. “I don’t care what we do. You pick.”

“I have some ideas. How about I surprise you?”

“Perfect. I’ll just need to run home and grab a change of clothes.”

“No need.” He grabs his phone off the nightstand, pulling up one of his contacts before handing it over. “Text my concierge your sizes and what you want. She’ll run to Saks. You’ll have everything you need within the hour.”

I’m stuck.

There’s no way to get out of this.

“That’s … really kind of you,” I say, holding his phone. He called my bluff yet again. I have to text this person now. Smiling, I tap out my sizes and requests on his screen, then press ‘send’ and give it back. “Thank you.”

Keir wraps his hand around the back of my neck, pulling me close and pressing his mouth against my forehead.

“Looking forward to breakfast,” he says. “And spending the day with you.”

He turns, heading to the bathroom, and I stand frozen, dumbfounded.

What the hell just happened?