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Chapter Eleven

Claire was alone when she woke up the next morning. The blankets covered her, but she was still cold. Which was just one of the reasons why she hated Wyoming winters so much. She was always freezing when she slept alone.

But it probably didn't help that all she had on was Greg's shirt. Her clothes from last night were all folded neatly at the foot of the bed. She put her jeans and sweater on, keeping her underwear next to her socks. In the bathroom, she brushed her teeth and rinsed her face.

Almost all of her makeup had come off last night – or was it this morning? – and she looked rather plain. Another reason she hated winters: her skin got so dull and pale. In Arizona, she was tan all the time. All she needed was some mascara, and she was good to go. Here, it was an entirely different matter. She pinched her cheeks to try and get some color into them, but that was about the best she could do.

She heard the sound of pans moving around and was suddenly . . . nervous to go out there. To see him. After. She didn't regret it, not really, but they definitely should have talked about things before. Or even after. She would have settled for at least after.

And maybe they could have kissed, too. Instead of just going straight to sex. It had been great, but it had also felt . . . impersonal, in a way. They hadn't even kissed.

Running her hands through her hair, Claire took one last look in the mirror that was just an inch too tall for her and forced herself to go see Greg. He was putting the lid over a pan of frying bacon when she walked in. He wore jeans and a t-shirt, his feet bare.

He had pancakes going, too. There was a big stack on a plate next to him and more cooking in the pan. He flipped one and then another, tapping his foot on the wooden floors to a silent rhythm as he worked.

"Good morning," she said, her voice sounding too loud in this quiet space.

Greg jumped, his back going ramrod straight and his shoulders jerking. He put the pancakes onto the plate and switched off the oven before turning to her. "Mornin'. How'd you sleep?"

She felt her cheeks warm. "Good. You?"

"Good."

He put the plates onto the kitchen table where everything was already set. He sat down at the spot with the big glass of milk, leaving her to sit with the glass of water. Because he knew she always liked to drink a big glass of water first thing in the morning.

She poured just a drop of syrup onto two pancakes, cutting them up slowly, as Greg portioned out bacon onto his plate. They traded. She took two slices; he took four cakes and doused his plate with syrup.

Claire took a bite. "Are there-"

"Dark chocolate chips? Yes."

She was sure the grin that split her face was much too big to be considered pretty, but she didn't care. Dark chocolate chip pancakes made with whole-wheat flour were her absolute favorite.

"Thank you," she said. "For breakfast. And for letting me stay."

"Of course. It's the least I could do. And it was nice having you. Here." He coughed. "Having you stay here. It was nice having you stay here."

"Well, I'm glad I could stay."

He took a few gulps of milk. "So, how are you feeling?"

"Just fine. The water and Tylenol really helped. And I never really get hungover, either. My legs will sometimes hurt, but that's about it."