We ate breakfast in bed.
Which was not something I usually did.
I did not eat in bed. Beds were for sleeping, controlled romantic mistakes, and occasionally reviewing documents when deadlines had committed acts of violence against me. Food in bed meant crumbs, and crumbs meant chaos, and chaos meant MrBigshot arriving like a tiny orange inspector to punish me for poor household management.
But apparently Wisteria had different rules.
Or Caelin had ruined mine.
Possibly both.
So we ate in bed, uncaring about crumbs, sipping coffee and stealing glances like teenagers who had been told not to flirt and immediately decided to flirt through pastry handling.
He sat on top of the covers, one knee bent, tray between us, shirtless and unfair. I sat cross-legged in his T-shirt, trying to look
