Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
“Fascinating,” I say weakly. I will not think of August’s thick, strong thighs.
“I also train for flexibility.” He watches me from under his lashes, lips twitching. “If you’re too stiff, things can get hurt.”
“Things . . . ?” I blink and then narrow my eyes. “You’re messing with me.”
He chuckles, a carefree, far too delighted sound. “No, I’m completely serious.” Leaning in, August braces forearms corded with muscle against the Formica. “You started to look a little flushed there, though. You all right?”
The jerk.
I lean in too, resting my breasts at the edge of the table. It’s gratifying to see his attention flick there and remain. “August?”
Caught, his gaze darts up to my face, studying me with interest. “Yes, Penelope?”
I lick my lips, and he follows the motion, his own parting.
“Bite me.”
There’s a pause, and then his smile erupts. “Where do you want it, Sweets?”
Gah.
Tight with heat and pulsing embarrassment, I’m tempted to tell him he can start on my neck and work his way down. Oh, how I want to, but this isn’t that type of relationship, no matter how good he is at flirting.
Giving him a repressive look as he chuckles in victory, I wonder if he always flirts as easy as breathing. I know March does. August, however, is a different story. My view of his personal relationships has been a bit skewed. I’d watch from afar, seeing only rare glimpses, and hoarding those times in the vault of my memory. Whenever August was around other women—girls really, back then—I’d leave. It hurt to watch, so why do it?
Our server arrives, food plates running up his thin arms. “Here we go.”
We’re soon tucked into our food. August, true to his claim of rabid hunger, practically inhales half his omelet before taking a sip of coffee. Only then does he slow his pace. “God, I needed that.”
Cutting a pillowy square of pancake, I take a bite and make a sound of agreement.
“Good?” He looks at me with a fascinated intensity that sends an agitated wave of heat over my skin.
“Delicious.”
His nostrils flair with an indrawn breath. “Give me a bite?”
I don’t hesitate, cutting a huge piece and offering my fork. Bracing his forearms on the table, he leans over the plates and snags the bite, firm lips sliding over my fork. Slowly he chews. There’s a glint of something in his eyes—teasing, definitely, but the other thing . . . His gaze lowers to my lips, and everything slows down, the clatter and chatter of the diner fading.
August’s eyes meet mine. My heartbeat sounds overloud in my ears. Base desire flows like liquid gold through my veins, hot and languid. Beneath the table, I press my thighs together to ease the ache between them. How the hell does he do this to me so easily?
This is why I avoided August so vehemently all these years. I can’t control my response to him, and I can’t hide it.
Maybe my agitation shows, because he blinks as if coming out of a fog and then flashes me a sweet smile. “You’re right. It’s delicious.”
My response is a supremely smooth, “Guh-huh.”
The bracket dimples around August’s mouth deepen. He stabs a golden portion of hash browns and offers it to me.
“Oh, I . . .”
“Don’t be shy.” He gives the fork an enticing wiggle. “I know you love hash browns. Especially the crispy bits.”
Surprise has my lips parting, and he gently feeds me the bite.
“How did you know that?” I ask, when I’m finished chewing.
“Pen, come on. We grew up together.”
“You were almost never around.”
August concentrates on his omelet. “I guess I was around just enough.”
Is that why I know he hates mushrooms but loves truffles? Or how he gets car sick if he has to sit behind the driver. I’ve collected these pieces of him because I paid attention on the sidelines. Had he been doing the same? Or was it more like osmosis based on a sometimes shared childhood?
“I used to come here with my grandparents,” I say, to fill the silence that’s descended between us.
“Me too.” His expression grows fond. “When I visited them, we’d go here, or out for hot dogs, burgers . . .” He huffs a laugh. “They loved ‘Americana food,’ as they called it.”
“Yes, they did.” It’s useless to regret things that will never be, but my chest squeezes. Part of me mourns that August and I never went here together with them. That we grew up together yet somehow completely apart.
“The year Jan won the Heisman, March and I joined him out here. We drove along the coast, went surfing, and Jan met with his agent and some PR people.” August stabs a thick, golden, lump of omelet. “All that stuff. Anyway, we got together with Pops and Pegs. They took us to Sushi Park. Do you know the place?”