Page 8 of If You Never Come Back
Wes wagshis eyebrows at me over the short stack of blueberry pancakes. “You really think you can beat me?”
“No question.” I stab my fork into my short stack of chocolate chip pancakes.
“Shay, you have no idea who you’re messing with.” He takes an enormous bite before chewing and swallowing. “I’ve been hiking dozens of miles every day for the past three months. My metabolism is like that of a starving polar bear. You honestly think you can eat more pancakes than me?”
Honest answer? No way in hell. But I’m not admitting that.
Instead, this pancake eating contest is a tactic, a way to stretch this night even longer, this night that’s been the most fun date I’ve ever had.
We talked pleasantries over our first stack of pancakes. I filled him in about how I’m building my art business and working at Remy’s bar to help with expenses. Wes shared how he’s on month three of hiking across the country, something he’s been wanting to do ever since he was a kid. After working as a construction laborer and project manager most of his twenties, he set a goal: save money for a few years, then quit at thirty, drive across the country, and hike scenic spots along the way. He’s currently staying with his friend Colin, the tall, shaggy-haired guy from earlier, for the rest of this month to recuperate from his trek in Colorado and to plan the next leg of his trip.
We bonded over our love of electronic dance music and discovered that we both adore the DJ Mari Dash. And now we’re indulging in our other mutual love: breakfast food.
“For sure I can eat more pancakes than you.” I wink and take another bite.
“It’s on.” Wes chomps on another forkful and winks back. This is going very, very well.
“Did you eat like this as a kid, too? Good lord.”
He swallows. “Pancakes were kind of a treat growing up. I didn’t eat them often.”
“Impressive. You’re certainly making up for it now.”
He mock-frowns while swallowing. “I feel one hundred percent confident in my abilities to eat you under the table.”
I look up, heat flashing across my cheeks. He’s blushing, too. I’m not the only one who picked up on his naughty undertone.
He drops his fork, a flustered chuckle falling from his lips. “That’s not…I didn’t mean it that way. I’m sorry.”
When he finally makes eye contact with me, there’s something extra in his stare. It’s still just as hypnotic as before, but I could swear I see something else. Something smoldering and hot and fiery, something that says despite his protests, those words are exactly what he wants.
It’s exactly what I want, too.
Seeing that fire in his eyes is a comfort. It means we’re equally eager to bed each other.
I swallow my last bite and pin him with my stare, prepping myself to suggest something I’ve never suggested on a first date before. I speak, my whisper low. “You took the words right out of my mouth. You wanna get out of here?”
The walk to my apartment building would normally take twenty minutes coming from the diner, but with the surge of sugar, carbs, and arousal pulsing through us, we make it in fifteen. That’s even with two stops to make out and grope each other along the way.
I’ve never done the fumbling-kissing-tripping walk home in winter before, and it’s much more complicated than in the summer. We’re tugging through layers of parka, scarves, and hats. When we tumble all the way to my third-floor studio apartment, we’re both sweating and panting.
I don’t even bother to flip the light on. I don’t want to waste time, and there’s no need. Not when streetlights from the outside paint the inside of my apartment in a soft glow.
“First one naked wins,” I huff while pulling away from Wes’s mouth to shed my boots, beanie, mittens, scarf, and coat.
Wes peels away his winter wear in seconds. He’s back in the jeans and flannel I remember from hours ago. He reaches for me, stilling my hands when he softly wraps his fingers around my wrists.
“Let me?”
His touch and his gaze work in unison. I’m rendered immobile by the hypnotic look in his eyes, the heat of his calloused palms on my skin. He pulls me against him, just like he held me when we collided in the bathroom hours ago.
I take a breath to steady myself, the scent of his sandalwood cologne and maple syrup filling my lungs.
“I don’t normally do this,” I whisper, nuzzling my nose into his chest. I inhale once more.
He buries his face at the top of my head, breathing in through my hair, which has fallen loose from its braid. Thank god I washed it last night.
“I don’t ever do this,” he chuckles.
