ANGEL ROSE
Frankie’s voice, a low growl of pure frustration, cuts through the peaceful hum of my morning. “Angel! Where the hell are my clothes?”
A slow, victorious smile spreads across my lips. Got him.
I turn off the bathroom sink, my reflection in the mirror gleaming with mischief. “In the washing machine!” I call out, my voice dripping with fake innocence.
I pad into the kitchen, the tile a nice contrast beneath my comfy and cute bunny morning shoes. The rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafts through the air.
His heavy, agitated footsteps pound down the hall. “What are my clothes doing in the washing machine, woman?” He appears in the doorway, and my heart does a ridiculous, joyful flip.
There he is. All six-foot-whatever of brooding, tattooed masculinity, utterly defeated
