“I’m starving.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, but his attempt at flirting was betrayed by the loud rumble of his stomach.

Miranda laughed again. “Uh-huh. There’s my answer.”

Much to his unhappiness, she scooted off the bed and headed for the bedroom door. “Omelet or regular eggs?”

His mouth immediately watered. “Omelet.”

“Ham, cheese, mushrooms, green peppers, onions?”

Oh f**k. Now he was liable to drool all over her damn sheets. “All of those sound great.”

“Good. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

Seth dragged himself out of bed and ducked into the hall bathroom to use the john and wash up. His gaze was drawn to the toothbrush holder on the edge of the porcelain sink. Three toothbrushes—an adult-sized one and two kiddie brushes with Disney characters on them. It was an intrusive reminder that Miranda didn’t live in this apartment alone, but luckily, he hadn’t spent much time with the rugrats since they’d left his house. He’d either come by here when the kids were in school, or Miranda stopped by his place for a quickie if she managed to leave the club early.

When he entered the kitchen five minutes later, Miranda already had an omelet sizzling in a pan. She nudged it with a wooden spatula and the most incredible aroma floated in his direction.

“You need any help?” he offered.

“I’ve got the omelets and toast covered, but you could pour us some coffee. Mugs are in the cupboard to your left.”

Seth grabbed the coffeepot and poured the hot liquid into two ceramic mugs, then headed for the fridge to get the milk. He splashed a bit into Miranda’s cup, dumped in two sugars, and carried both mugs to the small kitchen table. He sipped his coffee, his gaze following Miranda’s movements and admiring the way her cotton boxer shorts clung to her perfect ass.

“Oh, and by the way,” she announced, perching one hip against the counter, “I’m still horrified by what you said the other day.”

He chuckled. “I say a lot of scandalous things, baby. You’ve gotta be more specific.”

“About Marquez being technically better than Pacquiao?” she prompted.

“Oh, that.”

“‘Oh, that’?” She raised her spatula in the air as if she planned to whack him with it. “Manny Pacquiao is clearly the superior fighter, Seth. He won two of the three matches between him and Marquez—”

“It was a split decision—”

“It’s still a win!” She harrumphed. “Jeez, next thing you’ll be telling me is that Ali wasn’t the greatest boxer of all time.”

“He wasn’t. Sugar Ray Robinson, hands down.”

Miranda’s mouth fell open. And stayed open. She just stared at him in shock for a good minute.

Seth stifled a laugh and gestured to the stove. “You gonna deal with our breakfast before it burns?”

After a beat, she snapped out of whatever mental lecture she’d been giving him and shut off the burner.

“I can’t believe you said that about Ali,” she muttered after she’d served their food and joined him at the table. “I think that might have been blasphemy.”

“Hey, everyone’s entitled to their own opinion,” he chastised.

“Not when it’s wrong.”

The stubborn look in her eyes made him grin. He liked that she had no qualms about arguing with him. Or challenging him. Or sassing him. Miranda always spoke her mind, which he appreciated. A lot of females expected you to be a damn psychic. They wanted you to anticipate their moods, to know when they were pissed off without them having to tell you, and then they got even angrier when you didn’t. It was refreshing being with a woman who didn’t expect him to do any unreasonable guesswork.

Being with her? the little voice in his head echoed, wary as hell.

Sleeping with her, he amended. Hanging out with her. Flinging with her. Whatever.

There was a lull in the conversation as they ate, but the silence was comfortable. After they finished eating, they carried their plates to the sink and cleaned up together. He washed, she dried, and as detergent soap bubbles floated over the sink, Miranda sneezed so many times Seth actually got a stitch in his side from laughing so hard.

It wasn’t until they refilled their coffees and headed for the backyard so he could have a smoke that he realized how this entire morning just smacked of domesticity. He’d never had breakfast with a woman before. Never washed dishes with a woman. Never had coffee in a woman’s backyard, or chatted about bird feeders with a woman.

Shit.

What was he doing?

“Sophie is convinced one of those sparrows is after her.” Miranda’s laughter broke through his thoughts.

He followed her gaze to the birds pecking at the seeds in the red wooden feeder hanging off the fence that bordered the yard. “She could be right,” he mused. “That one on the right looks a tad aggressive.”

“She claims it sits in front of the window and pecks at the glass, looking at her with, and I quote, ‘bad-people eyes’.”

He laughed, then reprimanded himself for it. Crap. Again, what was he doing? This thing with him and Miranda…it was about sex. About satisfying the hot, primal urges she unleashed in him. Nothing wrong with enjoying her company at the same time, but there needed to be a balance between, say, talking about boxing like friends and washing dishes together like an old married couple.