I haven’t been back since my grandparents passed, but thesensation of sliding my bum across the tan booth remains the same as I meet August for breakfast two days later because he wants to settle “some things” before we go public.
He smiles at me from across the table—that happy, gorgeous true smile of his that crinkles his eyes and brackets his mouth with little dimples. Dressed in faded jeans, a gray T that stretches tight across his shoulders but hangs lose on his trim waist, and a trucker hat worn backward, he looks like a walking ad for casual wear. Honestly, as my mom would say, the man could sell ice to penguins, and they’d walk away happy. Given that this is LA, where hot men abound, he doesn’t stick out. But he’s still the only man I notice.
“I’m starved,” he says, glancing at the menu with ravenous intensity. Oh, to be a menu. “I met with my trainer at six in the fucking morning and was tortured for hours.”
“Poor baby.”
His eyes twinkle with good humor. “It was hell, I tell you. Pure hell.”
“I can imagine.” No, honestly, I can. And I’m glad I wasn’t subjected to it.
“And all I could think was, soon I’d be with you.”
My breath puffs out in a little “oh” of surprise. Damn the man, he’s too good with words. How did I not know this? I’m saved from having to respond when our server arrives. I order my usual pancakes and bacon. August goes for the gold, getting a protein omelet and hash browns.
“No shakes?” I ask, amused.
“Maybe later.” He winks as our server comes back to pour us coffee. “Today’s a build and bulk day.”
August is more lean than bulk. But his build is well honed.
I must have been caught looking, because he gets cheeky.
“Mostly the legs,” he says casually, that gleam still in his eyes. “Strength equals stability and protection. Did so many squat thrusts today, my thighs burn like hell. If you’re interested.”
“Fascinating,” I say weakly. I will not think of August’s thick, strong thighs.
“I also train for flexibility.” He watches me from under his lashes, lips twitching. “If you’re too stiff, things can get hurt.”
“Things...?” I blink and then narrow my eyes. “You’re messing with me.”
He chuckles, a carefree, far too delighted sound. “No, I’m completely serious.” Leaning in, August braces forearms corded with muscle against the Formica. “You started to look a little flushed there, though. You all right?”
The jerk.
I lean in too, resting my breasts at the edge of the table. It’s gratifying to see his attention flick there and remain. “August?”
Caught, his gaze darts up to my face, studying me with interest. “Yes, Penelope?”
I lick my lips, and he follows the motion, his own parting.
“Bite me.”
There’s a pause, and then his smile erupts. “Where do you want it, Sweets?”
Gah.
Tight with heat and pulsing embarrassment, I’m tempted to tell him he can start on my neck and work his way down. Oh, how I want to, but this isn’t that type of relationship, no matter how good he is at flirting.
Giving him a repressive look as he chuckles in victory, I wonder if he always flirts as easy as breathing. I know March does. August, however, is a different story. My view of his personal relationships has been a bit skewed. I’d watch from afar, seeing only rare glimpses, and hoarding those times in the vault of my memory. Whenever August was around other women—girls really, back then—I’d leave. It hurt to watch, so why do it?
Our server arrives, food plates running up his thin arms. “Here we go.”
We’re soon tucked into our food. August, true to his claim ofrabid hunger, practically inhales half his omelet before taking a sip of coffee. Only then does he slow his pace. “God, I needed that.”
Cutting a pillowy square of pancake, I take a bite and make a sound of agreement.
“Good?” He looks at me with a fascinated intensity that sends an agitated wave of heat over my skin.
