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I grab the edges of them and haul them back up.

They slide off again.

More forcefully this time, I yank the covers back up.Screw Des and his coffee.

Just as I’m tucking the blankets under my arm, they begin to slip away once more. I grapple with them, playing some ridiculous game of tug-of-war with an inanimate object.

“Oh my God, Des,seriously?”

He leans against one of the bedposts, sipping what’s supposed to be my coffee. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

That lying bastard.

“Fine,” I growl, rolling myself off the bed. “I’m up.”

I stomp over to him. Studiously ignoring the fact he’s gloriously shirtless and his hair is tied back in a stupidly sexy man bun, I snatch the mug of coffee from his hand and head out onto the balcony that branches off from our room.

“A thank-you would be nice,” he says, following me out.

“So would an apology,” I retort over my shoulder.

Big surprise, he has nothing to say about that.

Breakfast is already laid out on the tiny mosaic table that occupies a good portion of the balcony, and it smells so good.

I take a seat, careful to drape my wings over it, before I bring the coffee to my lips and take a sip. Lord, does it taste good. It’s almost worth losing sleep over.

Across from me, Des sits, his large frame dominating the little bistro chair. He picks up his espresso cup, sipping delicately from it.

Normally the sight of that tiny cup in his hands would make me laugh. Right now, however, I just glower at him over the rim of my mug. It doesn’t help that he has a painfully pretty face. Or that his massive chest and corded arms are on display.

Why does he have to always look so goddamn good? Especially when I’m pretty sure I look like roadkill.

This is just one more reason why the world isn’t fair.

Des stares pointedly at my plate, where a steaming breakfast burrito sits. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

“Why did you make me breakfast?” I ask suspiciously.

He sets down his espresso, his eyes guarded. “Is this a trick question?”

“It seems unusually nice,” I say.

“Now you’re just trying to be mean.”

Maybe I am. In the past, Des would take me out to breakfast, and there were never any strings attached.

So why do I feel as though this time thereare, indeed, strings attached?

I take another gulp of my coffee before placing it on the table. “Did you seriously wake me up early just to feed me?”

“It’s not that early,” Des says, sidestepping the question.

He may be right. The stars twinkle above us just as they did last night when we fell asleep.

“Why did you make me breakfast?” I repeat.

“Because I love you,” he says. “Does everything have to come with a price?”