Two in the afternoon might be a brow-raising time for breakfast service, but the hotel staff didn’t argue when he phoned down the request. “That was the best meal I’ve had in years,” Aida said from his side, propped up on feather pillows. One bent freckled leg peeked out from beneath the white sheets. “Maybe there’s something about your pro-breakfast stance.” He rolled onto his left hip to face her. “Stick with me and you’ll eat breakfast every day.” She gave him a slow smile and closed her eyes, the picture of satisfaction. This is how he wanted to see her, stretching like a cat, cheeks flushed, eyes lazy. Unable to do anything more than lift a spoon. “Are they your customers?” she asked. “Who?” “This hotel.” “No,” he said, eyeing the open condom tin on the bedside table. Only one of three left, dammit. He should’ve bought another tin.
