Can't Stand the Heat - Louisa Edwards [96]
“My mom gives me a new pair every Christmas,” Adam said with a grin. “I give all the tops to Goodwill. There’s this funny German lady who runs an old-fashioned candy store down the block, and she makes the best iced coffee in the world. Every now and then, I see her sporting a very familiar patterned shirt.”
Miranda shook her head. “Have you ever told her she’s wearing pajamas as clothing?”
“Why should I? They look great on her. Also, I’m a little afraid to. She’s perpetually cranky.”
“Oh, please,” Miranda scoffed. “Like there’s a woman alive you couldn’t charm.”
Adam raised his eyebrows. “Damn, Miranda. Keep that stuff up, and I’ll start thinking you like me.”
Miranda threw a pillow at him, which he dodged, laughing.
“Come on,” he cajoled. “Get up and cook with me. It’ll be fun.”
“Fine.” Miranda threw back the covers, determined to be as nonchalant and suave about this whole nudity thing as Adam was.
From the corner of her eye, she saw his throat work in a convulsive swallow.
“Okay, maybe I lied,” he said. “Jesus. You’re even more gorgeous the morning after. How the hell is that possible?”
Miranda pressed her lips together to hide a smile. His appreciatively roving gaze sent sparks of warmth goose-bumping over her skin. It also enabled her to stand up and strike a casual pose.
“Are you sure you’ve given away all the pajama tops?” she asked. “I don’t particularly want to face my clothes from last night. A sweaty dinner service followed by a stint in a smoky bar isn’t liable to have left them fresh as a daisy.”
“Yeah. What?” Adam blinked and dragged his gaze away from her chest. Miranda arched a brow at him and was pleased when he flushed.
“Sorry. I think I have something you can wear. Hold on.” He groped ineffectually at the open bureau drawer, never taking his eyes off her. Miranda decided it was time to take control.
“I’m going to borrow your toothbrush while you look,” she announced. Head held high, she marched into the bathroom and shut the door.
She took care of her usual morning routine as best she could. At first she avoided the mirror, afraid she’d see the same sort of wreckage that had taken hold after that party at Market. Eventually, of course, she couldn’t resist the urge to assess the damage wrought by the previous night’s emotional bonanza.
Huh.
In spite of the headache still coiled around her temples, Miranda didn’t see any outward evidence of her inner turmoil. Her hair was an almost attractive mess, rioting all over her head in masses of tumbled curls. Her eyes were wide and limpid, not bloodshot in the least. She’d expected to be pale, but instead she had good color in her cheeks, undoubtedly from the constant blushing she seemed to do around Adam. Curse of the redhead, Jess called it.
She watched her red, still kiss-swollen lips turn down at the thought of Jess. Some of the sparkle in her eyes dimmed.
God, what was she going to do?
Once Miranda was out of his direct line of sight, Adam managed to snap out of the semicoma her pretty, naked body had thrown him into. Hurriedly rifling through his drawers, he unearthed a T-shirt for himself—to cook bare-chested was to risk singed chest hair, which smelled unbelievably awful—and a Yankees sleep shirt Frankie’d given him as a joke. It had escaped the last nightshirt purge, and he thought it should be long enough to cover Miranda’s distracting bits. At least long enough to get something nourishing into her.
So one night of sex hadn’t made all her problems go away. Fine. Even if it was astonishingly, wildly, life-changingly awesome sex, he could understand that.
Probably they just needed to keep at it, perfect their technique. He grinned to himself.
But in the meantime, he’d fall back on his other great love: food. He was a firm believer in the curative properties of comfort food.
He left the Yankees shirt on the bed and went to see what he could rustle up.
The waffle iron was heating and he was halfway through mixing up the batter for cornmeal bacon waffles when Miranda appeared. She looked sleepy and tousled,