Page 25 of Forever Writing You

“You are?”

“Hell no.” He smiles. “That’s quite obvious.”

“Oh…” My cheeks redden. “I’m sorry I said I wanted to do it with you tonight because I mean, I do, I really do, but…”

“Okay, no.” I change course mid-thought. “When you did it with other girls, did you talk them through what you were about to do? Not like clinically, because I know what happens, but maybe?—”

“Shhhh.” He presses a kiss against my lips mid-sentence. “You’re one of one, Dahlia, and I’ve never dated a girl like you. I never had feelings for any of my past girlfriends, so I can wait until you’re ready. I promise.”

“What if that’s not until I’m forty?”

“I’ll remind you to freeze your eggs before then.”

I snort, and he kisses me again.

“Come here.” He grabs my hand and leads me downstairs to the kitchen. “What do you want to eat?”

“Over easy eggs.”

“Hmmm.” He pulls a container from his bag. Opening it, he reveals a ripened strawberry plant and picks off all the fruit.

“You’re keeping up with the ones my mom gave you?”

“Yeah.” He nods. “My parents appreciate not having to buy them at the store anymore. Remind me to show you how many they’re growing in our back yard the next time you come over.”

“Will do.”

He pulls out a chair for me, and before I can ask him something else, he makes it clear that we’re not about to have a conversation.

He stares at me while he cooks, licking his lips and sucking wet batter from his fingers while he makes pancakes instead of eggs.

After drizzling butter atop my serving, he picks up a straw and slides it in and out of the biggest strawberry. Then, he fills the hole with whipped cream.

He puts together a plate for himself before smiling and sitting across from me.

“Okay,” I say. “I would like to have sex now.”

“You should eat your food.” He stuffs half of his pancake into his mouth. “Pass the syrup.”

“I’m serious.”

“About passing the syrup?”

“No.” I slide it to him. “About having sex.”

“I know.”

“So, we’ll go back upstairs, and do it?”

“No.”

I watch him finish, confused.

Without saying a word, he grabs our plates and places them in the sink.

Then he lifts me by the waist and sets me on the counter. “Are the doors locked?” he whispers.

“Yes.”

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