Flynn stared down at his plate, no longer hungry. He looked up at Clara, knowing if she could read anything on his face, it would be either despair or pleading, because both emotions were there in spades.
Clara eyed his gorgeous, perfectly poached eggs and half-eaten crumpet with something like lust. Flynn, despite himself, grinned. He shoved his plate toward her and watched as she dug in, as though she hadn’t just downed three pancakes and four slices of crispy bacon.
“Are you just gonna eat my breakfast, or do you have a better idea?”