Chapter 12
Twelve
Pen
One of the great things about LA is the classic Americana diner.
There’s something comforting in knowing you can get a plain cup of coffee, bacon and eggs, waffles, a fluffy stack of golden pancakes, crisp hash browns, a tuna melt, whatever floats your boat, and it will always be served up the same.
Hangover food, a family breakfast, works well either way.
Thankfully, it was saved and reopened under the new name of Clark Street Diner. It’s no longer a late-night drunken haven, but, seeing as I’d never been here after midnight, I’m okay with that.
I haven’t been back since my grandparents passed, but the sensation 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 of rabid 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.
“Delicious.”
His nostrils flair with an indrawn breath. “Give me a bite?”
I don’t hesitate, cutting a huge piece and offering my fork.
Bracing his forearms on the table, he leans over the plates and snags the bite, firm lips sliding over my fork.
Slowly he chews. There’s a glint of something in his eyes—teasing, definitely, but the other thing .
. . His gaze lowers to my lips, and everything slows down, the clatter and chatter of the diner fading.
August’s eyes meet mine. My heartbeat sounds overloud in my ears. Base desire flows like liquid gold through my veins, hot and languid. Beneath the table, I press my thighs together to ease the ache between them. How the hell does he do this to me so easily?
This is why I avoided August so vehemently all these years. I can’t control my response to him, and I can’t hide it.
Maybe my agitation shows, because he blinks as if coming out of a fog and then flashes me a sweet smile. “You’re right. It’s delicious.”
My response is a supremely smooth, “Guh-huh.”
The bracket dimples around August’s mouth deepen. He stabs a golden portion of hash browns and offers it to me.
“Oh, I . . .”
“Don’t be shy.” He gives the fork an enticing wiggle. “I know you love hash browns. Especially the crispy bits.”
Surprise has my lips parting, and he gently feeds me the bite.
“How did you know that?” I ask, when I’m finished chewing.
“Pen, come on. We grew up together.”
“You were almost never around.”
August concentrates on his omelet. “I guess I was around just enough.”
Is that why I know he hates mushrooms but loves truffles? Or how he gets car sick if he has to sit behind the driver. I’ve collected these pieces of him because I paid attention on the sidelines. Had he been doing the same? Or was it more like osmosis based on a sometimes shared childhood?
“I used to come here with my grandparents,” I say, to fill the silence that’s descended between us.
“Me too.” His expression grows fond. “When I visited them, we’d go here, or out for hot dogs, burgers . . .” He huffs a laugh. “They loved ‘Americana food,’ as they called it.”
“Yes, they did.” It’s useless to regret things that will never be, but my chest squeezes. Part of me mourns that August and I never went here together with them. That we grew up together yet somehow completely apart.
“The year Jan won the Heisman, March and I joined him out here. We drove along the coast, went surfing, and Jan met with his agent and some PR people.” August stabs a thick, golden, lump of omelet.
“All that stuff. Anyway, we got together with Pops and Pegs. They took us to Sushi Park. Do you know the place?”
It’s an extremely expensive yet traditional sushi restaurant inexplicably located on the second floor of an innocuous strip mall. It’s also a known celebrity magnet, pulling in A-listers on the regular.
“They took you there?” I can’t contain the surprise in my voice. While Pops and Pegs loved sushi, I didn’t think that would be their go-to.
August nods shortly. His hands, once loose with relaxation, fist. “They said to Jan . . .” He clears his throat. “He was soon to be a famous sports legend, and that one day, March and I would be too, so they might as well take us where top celebrities hung out.”
He looks down at his plate. “God, they thought that was a hoot, you know?”
“I can see it.” For a second, my breath goes short; I miss my grandparents so much.
“I still remember Pegs beaming. Said she was showing the world the Luck Boys, and the world better be ready for us.”
My smile is watery. “They were right.”
He holds my gaze with his. “I loved them too, Pen.”
“I know.”
It sits between us for a quiet moment. Then he exhales long and slow. “So many people I might let down.”
“August . . . no. You’re not going to let anyone down.”
He looks away, staring out of the window where the traffic flows by. When he turns back, it’s as if he’s shrugged off the dark mood cloaking him, and his expression lightens. “No, not anymore. I’ve got you now.”
“Ha.”
“Ha ha!” he answers goofily. Then reaches into his pocket and pulls something out. He slides his fisted hand across the table toward mine. I automatically reach out to meet him. His big hand engulfs me and suddenly, I’m holding a small box.
My pulse skips a beat then starts up hard and fast.
“To seal the deal.” August’s expression is enigmatic as he slowly withdraws his hand. “Maybe open that up discreetly.”
Is he kidding me? I swear I must be red as a hothouse rose right now. All I want to do is look down at the ring-sized box burning a hole in my palm. Or chuck it away and run.
I settle for slowly sitting back and bringing my hands down to my lap.
Now and then, during my teen years, I envisioned receiving an engagement ring one day.
Those passing fantasies were vaguely romantic and the giver a nebulous stranger.
I never thought I’d be given one by August Luck.
And never under false pretenses. Yet here we are.
Blood rushes in my ears as I fumble with the hinged top. It flips back with a crack that I swear is loud as a gunshot, but probably no one hears but me.