The sun is just beginning to flirt with the horizon when my alarm starts playing The Rolling Stone’s “Wild Horses.” Kayla groans and buries her face in my chest. “Five more minutes,” she mumbles.
I know I should probably insist on getting up, Kayla will panic if we’re even five minutes late walking into the office. But it feels too good lying next to her, warm and naked, feeling her breath on my skin, so I give in and hit snooze. Predictably, after our short reprieve, as the music starts up once more, she groans again and asks for another five minutes. “Sweetie,” I say gently, brushing the hair away from her face, “we’re going to be late.”
“Call in sick.”
I smile at my words from last night coming back to me. F*ck, she’s adorable. “Come on, honey, I’ll make you breakfast.”
She rolls o
