“That’s not going to happen. We are not hooking up. That is off limits.”
* * *
Havehis lips always been that full looking?
No . . . we are not thinking about his lips or his biceps or his hair and how it looks so full that I want to lose my fingers in it. Nor are we thinking about his boxer briefs, what’s underneath the boxer briefs, and what can be done when said boxer briefs are removed. Seriously, Penny. Get a freaking grip.
I shake my head and stare down at my menu. Food, you want food.
Not him.
Food.
“Do you like French onion soup?” Eli asks. “It’s fucking incredible here.”
Onions.
That’s exactly what I need.
I need a big fat onion to sit on my tongue and fester because nothing screams mood diffuser like a festered onion.
“I’ll have that,” I nearly scream, scaring Eli back into his chair. Clearing my throat, I calmly say, “French onion soup sounds good.” Gently, I rest my menu down and then pick up my water to take a sip.
Studying me with a curious eye, Eli asks, “Are you okay? You’ve been a little jumpy ever since the bookstore.”
“Do you realize you must ask me if I’m okay a dozen times a day?”
“Well, because I want to make sure you’re okay.”
“How about this? You assume I’m okay unless told otherwise.”
Just then, the server comes over, and Eli, the gentleman that he is, orders soup, a bread basket, and a side salad for each of us. The server, of course, asks for a selfie—which Eli kindly obliges—and then he takes off with our order.
When he’s out of earshot, Eli speaks lowly and says, “It’s my duty to make sure you’re okay, so if I ask, it’s because I care.” He winks. “Deal with it.”
“Deal with it?”
“Yup.” He grins. “Now, tell me, are you excited to fill out our pregnancy journals together?”
I twist my water glass on the table and shake my head. “I can’t believe you got one too.”
“I want the full experience.”
“Oh, do you now?” I smile. “Then does that mean we should hook the stim machine up to your undercarriage and reenact what childbirth will feel like? I’ve seen many influencer couples do that. Seems like fun.”
He shrugs. “If you want. My threshold for pain is quite high.”
“You say that now.”
“I mean it,” he says, his voice completely serious. “I once played a game with a torn ligament in my ankle. I can make it through pretty much anything.”
“Are you challenging me?”
“Let me put it this way, Penny. You’re carrying my child, which means I’ll do what you ask of me. If that means strapping a stim machine to my junk so I can experience a sliver of what you’ll be going through, fine, I’ll do it. If you want to strap a watermelon to my stomach and make me do everyday activities around the house, then that’s fine too. Whatever you want, you get.”
“It’s annoying how accommodating you are.”
He laughs out loud. “I’m sorry, would you like me to be more unaccommodating?”
