I’d made French toast Roxie’s way. That was to say, with powdered sugar sweetened cream cheese sandwiched in the middle (we could just say it was good Ren cooked—he had everything in his kitchen). I’d also fried up some smoky links and cut up some strawberries with the stem still on so I could fan them on the plates, two of which, with mugs of steaming coffee, were on the tray.

It looked and smelled awesome.

His eyes came back to me. “You cook?”

I felt my brows knit. “Sure I cook.”

“You’ve never cooked for me.”

This was true. I hadn’t. I’d made toast, but that didn’t count as cooking.

I smiled, leaned in and whispered, “Lucky boy, you have a plethora of delights awaiting you.”

His eyes got hot, his arms closed around me and I found myself back to the bed, Ren on me and his tongue in my mouth.

Nice.

When his lips slid to my neck, I noted, “Baby, this gets any hotter, breakfast is gonna suck.”

He kissed my neck, lifted up, looked at me and mumbled, “Right.”

Then he touched his lips to mine, rolled off and away. I turned to my side and got up on an elbow to watch his ass as he went to the dresser and pulled out a pair of gray drawstring pajama bottoms. He tugged them on (hot) and I then watched the muscles in his back move as he walked to the bathroom (also hot).

I was in a new satin nightie the color of lemon chiffon with light blue lace (which was also hot; Roxie, Tod and Stevie set me up) as well panties. I was sitting cross-legged on the bed and had a coffee mug in my hand when Ren returned.

He joined me, back to the headboard, legs stretched out, ankles crossed, one of his thighs touching my knee. He grabbed some coffee, sucked it back then handed me a plate. I stowed my mug snug in the bed beside my hip as he nabbed his own plate, picked up the fork resting on it and looked at me.

His brown eyes were still slightly sleepy. They were also still totally hot.

“Breakfast in bed on a Sunday, baby. I like it,” he said quietly before he commenced eating.

“I’m buttering you up,” I admitted, and that was when his eyes narrowed on me.

“For what?” he asked.

“Twenty questions,” I answered.

His eyes unnarrowed, he looked back at his plate and forked into the French toast, saying, “Fire away.”

That was it. Fire away. Nothing to hide. Not with that reaction. He didn’t tense. He didn’t evade. He just said, Fire away.

I liked that.

“Actually, it’s just three questions, not twenty,” I amended, and he looked at me, chewing.

When I said no more, mouth still full, he prompted, “Yeah?”

“Why do you park in front?”

His head jerked and he swallowed. “What?”

“You have a perfectly fine garage out back. Why do you park in front?”

“Because it’s half a football field away from the house,” he answered the answer I’d guessed.

I grinned at my plate because I liked being right, and I liked it more when Ren was witty, then I forked into French toast.

“Do you wanna park in back?” Ren asked, and I looked at him. “Got remotes for the opener. You should have one anyway, and when you do you can park where you want.”

“Okay. But I’m fine in the front. I just didn’t know why you didn’t park there,” I shared.

“And this is important?” he asked.

“No,” I answered.

He stared at me then he grinned. “You always wanted to know.”

I said nothing.

“And badass Ally Nightingale, holdin’ me at arm’s length, wouldn’t let herself ask.”

I rolled my eyes even though he was right.

“I was so totally in there,” he declared.

“I think we established that, Zano,” I replied.

“Just good to know how in there I was,” he murmured, still grinning even as he bit off half a sausage link. Bite in his mouth, he asked, “What else you always wanna know, honey?”

“Do you have a gardener?”

“Yes.”

Ren Zano didn’t mulch.

Why did having that confirmed make me feel melty inside?

I didn’t ponder that.

I kept going.

“You seem to have an aversion to the mall.”

His answer to that was, “Do I have a dick?”

I felt my lips curl up and I replied, “Yes, baby. You have a dick.”

“Then, yeah. I got an aversion to the mall.”