Page 67 of The Carver

We left his place and went to Holybelly, his favorite breakfast spot.

Like last time, the waiter talked to him about the most recent football game, the two of them going back and forth about the specifics of the match and the players. We ordered coffees, and Bastien didn’t touch the menu, like he already knew what he would get because he always got the same thing.

“I’m glad I’m not falling asleep at my desk right now.”

He was in a dark-gray long-sleeved shirt, the sleeves squeezing his arms in the areas where he was the bulkiest. His chest was broad and thick like a brick wall, and his shoulders were wide enough to carry a car tire. He didn’t seem to hear or care about what I said because he didn’t say anything, but he stared at me hard like his entire focus was on me, nonetheless. Then he smiled—seemingly out of nowhere.

“What?”

He gave a slight shake of his head then took a drink of his coffee. “Nothing, sweetheart.”

“Nobody smiles like that for no reason.”

It was a big smile, the kind that reached his eyes, like I’d said something particularly funny, when I hadn’t said anything at all. “How’d you sleep?”

I didn’t want him to change the subject, but I let it go. “Hard.”

“Yeah, you were snoring.”

“What?”

He smirked. “It was cute.”

“I do not snore.”

“Well, you did.”

“I’ve never snored in my life.”

He shrugged. “You must have been really tired.”

“God…was I loud?”

He considered the question, the smirk still there. “A little.”

“Oh no.” I cupped my face because I was mortified, mortified that I’d sounded like a pig in a sty while this hot piece of man had to listen to it.

“It was cute, really.”

“You’re so full of it.”

He chuckled. “I’m not. It really didn’t bother me.”

“Well, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He took another drink of his coffee, still looking at me with that playfulness in his eyes.

The waiter came over and took our orders before he walked off again.

“Do you have dinner plans tomorrow?”

“No.” I didn’t have any plans ever, not after my life fell apart.

“Good. We’re having dinner with my mother.”

My ears heard exactly what he said, but my mind didn’t accept it. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Dinner—with my mom.”

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