BestLuck:The supportive kind. See what I did there?
MadMarch:ha ha. And you are so NOT the “best Luck”
BestLuck:Scoreboard, fuckface
MadMarch:While UR begging for Pen to luurv you I’m changing our group names to KingLuck and DelusiBro
BestLuck:I’m okay with being the king
MadMarch:I’m the king!
MadMarch:Hello?
MadMarch:Best Luck my ass
Twenty-Five
Pen
By the time August is set to arrive, I am a nervous wreck. I showered, blew my hair out, changed. Changed again. Fiddled with my makeup—too much? Not enough? Dabbed on perfume, then scrubbed at the spot, terrified it would be obvious.
I paced, considered changing again. Did my probably too-tight red polo T and flowing white midi-skirt look weird? Not dressy enough? God! Told myself to stop it. Then went and made spaghetti carbonara. It’s quick, filling, and fuck it, I cannot be relied upon to cook something more involved, or I’ll end up burning the house down.
When the doorbell rings, I literally jump in place, the wooden spoon in my hand almost flying free. With a breath, I turn off the heat on the stove and head for the door. My palms are clammy. Has the route to the door ever taken this long? Or been this short. Briefly, I consider turning heel and running for it.
Gritting my teeth, I open the door. August stands on the threshold, big, tall, and utterly beautiful. Faded jeans hug his thighs with loving care. He’s wearing an old black Boston Museum of Fine Arts T that’s probably a size too small and likely from when he lived back East. But it doesn’t matter. He looks so good. Delicious. All I want to do is press myself up against his long strong length and devour him.
And clearly, I’ve stared too long because he frowns and shifts his weight, as his gaze darts over my face. “Penelope?”
“August.”
A slow smile unfurls, taking his features from beautiful to extraordinary.
For a moment, I’m struck by the reverse in our placements. How long ago it feels since he’d opened the door for me and our relationship utterly changed. Would it do so again? Or fizzle out into nothing.
I resist the urge to press my hands to my chest and simply weep.Pretend for just a little longer. Then it will be out in the open and over.Just like ripping off a bandage.
“Sorry.” I open the door wider. “Come in.”
He does, stepping over the threshold and into my space so that I crane my neck to meet his eyes. Amusement and something softer light his. “For a second,” he says, “I thought we’d be playing the name game again.”
He’s too close. The heat of him warming my skin and making my heart strum.
“Once was weird enough,” I tell him thickly.
August’s lids lower with a slow smile. “Oh, I don’t know. I have fond memories of that moment.”
Does he?
His head tilts as he regards me. “You look gorgeous, Pen.”
“Eh,” is my smooth reply.
“Every time I see you again, it’s like I forget just how pretty you are, and I’m caught off guard by it.”
Why does he say these things? As a lover would. But then gives me a cheeky smile like he’s only being sweet and not to put too much into it.
When I don’t answer, he glances toward the kitchen. “Something smells good.”
