‘I missed you yesterday and the day before,’ he said. She retied the sash of her bathrobe. ‘I’ve had early clients this week. How’s your jet lag?’ ‘Gone, thanks to the miracle of melatonin. Is this a new coffee blend?’ he said, and pulled out a stool from the breakfast bar. He wore black motorcycle boots and leather pants, which made the blue coffee cup he held look so out of place. He needed a green bottle of beer and a black ink tattoo across his knuckles that said FREE WILL to give the picture of biker credibility. She’d never thought of it before, but did William have a tattoo? If he did, where was it hidden? On his back? On his shoulder? On his impressively firm ass? William had quite a nice ass. So few fifty-something guys had asses as nice William’s. Brad Pitt had a great fifty-something ass. So did George Clooney. Daniel Craig’s ass would be fabulous at fifty, but probably not as great was William’s was at fifty-six. He half leaned, half sat on the stool, and she looked at his leather-clad backside.
