Page 21 of Only You
“Okay,” I say breathlessly and find him watching me carefully. Can he read all my dirty thoughts?
I’m not sure what I want that answer to be.
He moves around the kitchen again, bringing everything we need to mix up the batter. It’s very simple, if I’m being honest, but having Remy standing this close to me, instructing me—it’s making me a little lightheaded.
We go over to the stove, and he shows me how to pour each pancake in the skillet and tells me how to know when to flip them before he goes about making scrambled eggs.
He apologizes for not having any bacon, like that might be a deal-breaker for me, but he has to know this is the best breakfast I’ve ever had. We sit down at the table, and I take the first bite, groaning deep in my throat at the taste.
I was hungrier than I realized, but when I see Remy watching me, I groan for a whole new reason. What the hell is he doing to me?
I try to think of something to say—anything to get my mind off the hunger in his eyes as he watches me. I have to be imagining it. Just because I’m fighting this weird new attraction to him does not mean that he’s dealing with the same thing.
“So, what are your plans for the day?” I try to sound casual.
“Oh, it’s Saturday, and I have nothing planned,” he says, sounding fairly content with that. It definitely makes me happy to know that he doesn’t have any plans with some fuckhead. “What about you?”
“I’m supposed to go to the batting cages with the fam.”
He grins at that. “Sounds fun.” I’m not sure if he’s just being polite or means it, and as much as I do want to spend time with the kids, Kellan and Phillip, I can’t help but feeling a sense of dread at leaving Remy.
“You should come.”
He nearly chokes on the sip of water he was taking and then laughs. “To the batting cages?”
“Yeah. Why not?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever hit a ball in my life. Not really my thing.”
“It’s a lot of fun,” I try. “And it doesn’t matter if you actually hit it or not, it’s just a good time.”
He watches me, taking a small bite of eggs and chewing. “I doubt Cason and Raegan want to hang out with their principal on a Saturday.”
I shrug. “ButIwant to hang out with their principal.”
His eyes widen ever so slightly, and then I see that flash of heat I swore I saw in them earlier before his pink tongue pokes out and sweeps over his bottom lip. “I don’t know.”
“I promise it’ll be okay. Besides, Cason is the one who invited you to dinner in the first place. Seems to me like he wants to hang out with his principal,” I tease, and it does its job because Remy laughs.
“Okay, sure,” he says, seeming to come to his decision, and I feel a sense of relief that he agreed.
After breakfast, I do the dishes as Remy takes a quick shower. Since none of his clothes will fit me, we decide he’ll ride with me over to my place so I can shower and get a change of clothes.
It should maybe feel a little weird, but it’s all oddly... normal. I feel a little nervous about showing him my shitty little apartment above some guy’s garage, but Remy is nothing but kind as his eyes sweep through the studio apartment.
He makes himself comfortable on my couch, and I hurry about my morning routine—forgetting that I probably should have brought clothes with me into the bathroom. I’ve been a bachelor for a long damn time, though, and I’m used to letting it all hang out after my shower. Getting dressed casually. But when I remember Remy is sitting out on my couch and waiting for me, I do my best to cover all I can with the white towel I dried myself with, wrapping it around my waist.
It clearly doesn’t hide much—a fact that presents itself when Remy’s eyes go wide and his pupils dilate. “Oh,” he says, his voice husky and his gaze not moving off my still-damp body.
“Sorry,” I say, standing there awkwardly—his gaze making things a little more difficult to hide as my body responds to his obvious perusal.
“No. Don’t be,” he says with a small laugh, his teeth biting on his bottom lip and his cheeks going a little pink. “No need to be sorry at all,” he says, injecting a little humor into his voice, and it makes me chuckle.
“Jeez, way to make me feel like a piece of meat,” I say, making damn sure he knows I’m teasing by using the correct tone.
“Hey, I’m not the one walking around in the world’s tiniest towel,” he jokes.
I grab a t-shirt, jeans, and some underwear before walking back over to the couch—maybe flexing a little extra as I do. I like the attention. What can I say?
