Fletcher’s eyes bulge.
Mine are sweating.
I chew.
And swallow.
And feel the heat all the way down my throat.
Behind my heart.
Into my stomach.
“That’s good,” I rasp.
“The best,” he agrees, equally raspy.
We both take another bite.
His father makes a noise and rises. “Definitely a type,” he says as he heads toward the powder room.
Once the door shuts, Fletcher lowers his head to mine. He’s sweating. He’s sweating like he ran seventeen miles through a swamp in August. “I thought you were going to sleep for another hour with the way you were sawing logs.”
Dear god, my tongue needs a fan. And ice. And a surgical procedure to reattach it from where it burned off inside my mouth. “I live to destroy the lives of men who don’t kick me out of their beds and send me home at night.”
He takes another bite of eggs.
Chokes.
Pretends he’s not choking.
And I start laughing.
I shouldn’t.
My mouth is on fire too. I can’t feel my lips. My taste buds might be permanently burned off. I’m sweating like it’s a hundred and ten with a heat index of one-forty even though Fletcher’s condo can’t be warmer than sixty-eight degrees.
And I’m having the best time ever.
Fletcher makes a noise that I recognize well.
It’s a stifled laugh that’s accompanied with a look at the bathroom.
He doesn’t want his father to hear him enjoying himself with me.
And that’s sad.
I impulsively reach across the counter and grab his hand. “I had fun last night. Thank you,” I whisper.
He meets my gaze and doesn’t reply.
He doesn’t have to.
That look says it all.I’m terrified to say it back to you.
Which is fine.
It’s fine. Seriously. All fine.
