Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
“I can’t wait to critique your technique,” he says, laughing, then kisses my neck. “Mmm. Make me breakfast in the morning, ’kay?”
I huff. “That’s why you wanted me to spend the night?”
“Maybe,” he says. A minute later, he’s asleep, and I’m exactly where I want to be.
Curled up with this man, sleepy and sated. The cat joins us, and I say goodnight to Taco too, because he’s definitely not a CockBlocker tonight.
29
GOD BLESS BLACK CARS
Jason
Sun streams through the window above the stove, brightening the entire kitchen. Hell, the whole house shimmers with light on this first Friday in November—including Beck.
I’m learning he looks good in the morning. He wears a snug, gray T-shirt, tight jeans, unkempt hair, and just the right amount of morning stubble. He’s like a dream come true. “I had a fantasy like this the other week,” I say as I set two places at the kitchen counter, and Beck lowers the heat on the stove.
The buff, muscular football player making me breakfast, turns to me, lifting a brow in a question. “You’re saying you want me to bend you over the kitchen counter when I’m done cooking?”
I shake my head, grinning selfishly at the meal coming my way. “Nope. My fantasy was eggs and potatoes.”
He rolls his eyes. “Walked right into that.”
“You sure did,” I say, then fold cloth napkins as I give him an apologetic smile. “Sorry I don’t have coffee. Or a coffee machine.”
“I’ll live. But while we’re at it, tell me more about your food fantasy,” he says as he serves the scrambled eggs onto red and yellow Fiestaware plates and then scoops breakfast potatoes next to them.
My stomach rumbles. This guy is such a good cook. I can’t wait to tuck in. He hands me a plate and then doles out his own food. “Last week, when I was leaving your house, I was thinking I wanted to take you to Lulu’s Diner,” I say, picking up a fork and diving into the meal.
Beck joins me at the counter, completing my morning-after fantasy of us in the kitchen after the sun is up, talking and eating. What can I say? I’m a simple man, and when I like a dude, I want him with me after we bone down.
“So, you fantasized about having a meal with me,” he says, inviting me to elaborate.
Feeling the warm glow of the morning after, I go for it. “I did. I wanted to grab some food and get to know you more,” I admit as my heart thumps a little harder.
He smiles like he can’t quite believe I told him that. “What did you want to ask about?”
“I had a bunch—”
The doorbell rings, and he sits up straight, alert. “Someone’s here?”
My phone buzzes in my pocket, so I know who’s at the door. I pat his thigh, then hop off the stool. “I got you something.”
“You did?” He sounds enchanted.
Feeling smug, I head to the door, swing it open, and thank the Ding and Dine driver for the coffee, adding a big tip.
“Thanks, man,” he says with a grateful smile. “Go Hawks!”
“Go Hawks,” I repeat as he bounds down the steps and out to his wheels. I shut the door and return to the kitchen, presenting the cup to Beck.
He takes it and regards it with surprise. “You got me a coffee?” he asks, despite the evidence in his hands.
“It’s from Doctor Insomnia’s. The way you like it,” I say, nerves tapping on my shoulder from his uncertain reaction.
Beck goes strangely quiet.
Shit. Did I go too far into the boyfriend zone? “Did I get your order wrong?” I ask, staying focused on the coffee.
“No. I just . . .” He sets the cup down on the counter and clears his throat.
My stomach sinks.
When he raises his face, his eyes are sparkling. “It’s great, Jason,” Beck says, voice thick with emotion. Then he cups my cheek and presses a tender kiss to my lips.
“It’s just coffee,” I murmur as we end the kiss, our lips still chasing each other.
“And these are just eggs,” he says gently.
There it is. We both have our simple fantasies. We both are living them. When I sit on the stool, Beck takes a sip of the drink and then taps his finger against it. “This is the good stuff.”
See? I’d be an excellent boyfriend, even if it has to be behind closed doors, with secrets and a distinct lack of things being easy. But I refuse to let reality get me down.
“How did you feel when you threw your first touchdown?” I ask as I spear a chunk of potato.
“Psyched. I was seven or eight. My dad taught me,” he answers.
“How long does it take you to play Wordle each day?”
A smile spreads nice and slow across his lips as if he enjoys my random queries. “A couple of minutes. Do you play?”