"Hello?" Her voice is hoarse, and I'm not convinced she's awake. I wonder if she talks in her sleep.
I grin as I tell her that I've had Henry deliver her breakfast. I hear her shuffling, probably getting out of bed. I can't stop myself from asking her if she's wearing my shirt. I left it out for her on purpose, just so that I could think about her wearing it. There's nothing better than a mental image. I don't mean to tell her though.
I frown as I hear myself saying, "I like you wearing my clothes."
I can picture her blushing. She's not used to compliments. I like that about her. I like the way she reacts to me.
"Are you in the kitchen yet?"
I'm impatient, and it's not because I have an appointment in five minutes. It's because I feel like a child at Christmas. It's disconcerting; I shouldn't feel like this over a girl eating breakfast in my kitchen.
"Yes," she says. "Breakfast?"