It stood open, the heavy scent of bacon grease and fried eggs wafting out to blend with the lingering chill that drifted off the nearby lake. Her stomach rumbled. She pushed the door open and fled the cool morning air. The last thing she expected to see, however, was Mason still at the skillet, dressed in only his boxer-briefs, his hair as disheveled as if he’d just rolled out of bed. For him, ten-fifteen was going on lunchtime. He was up and moving like clockwork, at five, even on the weekends. By the time she found the ability to confront morning, he’d taken a run around the lake, showered, and managed to crank out three good hours of design. He glanced over his shoulder at the same time he flipped an egg. “Morning.” He gestured at the coffee pot with his head. “It’s fresh.” Doing her best to ignore the broad expanse of his muscular shoulders and the way jersey cotton hugged his tight butt, Kirstin trudged to the coffeepot. She plucked a mug off the cup-tree in the corner and filled it to the brim.
