Chapter 44
LOREN
Elliott
How many pancakes are too many pancakes?
I used to love watching TV with Elliott. Now all I can do as I snuggle beneath his arm is think. It’s like my brain can’t let me just be happy. It has to be all, “Are you sure he really likes you”? and stuff.
It’s all Josh’s fault. What did I ever see in that jerk?
Elliott plays with my curls, tugging a strand, then letting it spring back into place. He doesn’t complain about how it tickles his face or how he wishes I would straighten it more often. He seems to accept me as I am.
If that’s really the case, then he will still like me if I interrupt this very interesting rerun of NCIS to ask some of the questions hanging on the tip of my tongue.
I smile up at him. Man, he’s good-looking. How did I ever get so lucky to land someone with a jawline like that?
Are you sure you actually landed him?
He must feel me ogling him, because he snatches the remote from the arm of the couch and pauses the show. His head twists, a smile already on his lips even before our eyes meet.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” he says back.
There’s no sense wasting time pretending to be happy when I’m driving myself crazy thinking we’re one thing when he’s thinking something else entirely. I’ve read way too many romance novels to know that is how conflicts arise.
I trace the collar on his white T-shirt, stopping to dip my finger into the hollow at his throat. “Are we a couple?”
His smile climbs higher. “Yeah, Chaos. We’re a couple.”
He says it like the answer should be obvious. Like he can’t think of anything he wants more than to be with me.
“Just like that?” A few mind-blowing kisses and a couple rounds in the bedroom and we’re a pair?
Seems too good to be true.
“Just like that,” he confirms with a kiss to my forehead.
This mind of mine, sometimes I hate it. Because even though Elliott has established that we are, in fact, a couple, what does that mean, exactly?
This isn’t like back in my parents’ day when you went steady with a boy.
Nowadays, there are so many different definitions for dating with a thousand different connotations.
“So we’re committed to each other, then?
Like, you’re not going to be sleeping with other women while you’re sleeping with me? ”
His smile falls. Not in an “I’m irritated” sort of way. More like an “it should be obvious, but I know why it isn’t” way.
“You’re the only one I’ll be sleeping with, Loren.”
Not that either of us have gotten much sleep since this thing between us started. Elliott is a sex machine, and I’m a big old ball of lust. I can’t even be in the same room as him without wanting some part of me plastered up against some part of him.
Case in point: we’re both sitting on the same cushion on the couch. There are two more cushions there, but I’d rather be wrapped around him.
“You hungry?” he asks with another kiss.
“Kinda.” That salad I had for dinner didn’t really fill me up.
“What do you want?”
“Pancakes?” It might be eight o’clock at night, but pancakes transcend time and they also happen to be the only food Elliott knows how to cook.
“Pancakes it is.” He kisses me once more, then stands and straightens the top of his sweatpants on his way into the kitchen. That ass of his is something else.
Instead of staying on the couch, I follow him into the kitchen.
Turns out I’m part lost puppy. Who knew?
If it wasn’t way too soon and it wouldn’t terrify the poor man, I’d say I loved him. He is quite literally everything I have ever wanted in a guy. If you would have asked me five years ago to describe my dream man, he would have been Elliott Grant.
This feels too good to be true. And like that one time I bought “Birkenstocks” for $20 online, I’m worried it might be.
I lean a hip against the counter, watching him swing open the fridge door, illuminating the dark room in blue-white light. “What’s wrong with you?”
He takes out the eggs and buttermilk and sets them beside the tin of flour before glancing over his shoulder at me, his brows coming together. “Excuse me?”
“Tell me something awful about yourself.”
Out comes the mixing bowl from the middle cabinet. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you kick puppies or you’re a secret peeping Tom.
” I scoot the pepper and salt shakers to the side so I can sit on the counter and watch him work.
Elliott is a damn good pancake chef. Even the first pancake always comes out perfectly golden and fluffy, which is not an easy feat to accomplish.
He picks up the shakers and moves them back on his way to the utensil drawer where we keep the whisk. Interesting. “I hate to disappoint, but I love puppies and prefer any woman I look at to know I’m there.”
I nudge the shakers when he isn’t looking, then smile innocently when he does. His brow furrows as he pushes them back into place.
I think I’ve found Elliott’s flaw. Little neat freak. I’m so relieved, I could kiss him.
You know what? Now that we’re dating, I’m going to kiss him.
I catch his shirt and twist. He stumbles forward, knocking his hip against the edge of the counter. When I press my lips to his, my heart leaps and my stomach flutters and my lady parts sing.
“What was that for?” The heat of his whispered words dances across my lips.
“You’re not perfect.”
“No one is perfect.”
True. But for a while there it was too close for comfort.
I only let him go because, as much as I want him, I want pancakes too. He cracks the eggs, but before he can add the other ingredients, I suddenly remember: “We don’t have any syrup.”
I meant to pick some up yesterday, but then work ran late and I wanted to get home before Elliott had to leave for the bar and it completely slipped my mind.
I slide off the counter. Now to find my purse. “You bake, and I’ll go to the store.” The pancakes won’t be nearly as good by the time I get back, but it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make since it was my turn to do the grocery shopping.
“How about we both go to the store?” He turns off the stove and swipes his keys from the hook beside the door.
“Are you sure you’re ready for that level of commitment?” Sure, we’ve been banging left, right, and center, but we have yet to leave the house together as a couple.
He arches a brow. “Are you?”
Please. I was born for this.
I lace my fingers with his and tug him toward the door.
This is going to be fun.
Elliott’s hand slides off the gearshift to poke my thigh. “Why are you smiling like you just watched someone kick your ex in the balls?”
Man, that would be some great entertainment. “Just thinking.”
“About what?”
I’m not entirely sure I should tell him but not telling him would be lying by omission, and I don’t want to start this relationship on a lie. “I was thinking that, normally, my first dates are to the movies or a nice restaurant, not a grocery store.”
His lips press into a flat line as he flicks the blinker, changing lanes to overtake a minivan crawling down the road. “This isn’t our first date.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Is this his second flaw? Having a terrible memory? “Fine. When was our first date?”
“New Year’s.”
“Oh, you mean when you made out with someone else in front of me?”
“You made out with her too.”
I can’t help but laugh.
“Okay, maybe not New Year’s.” His thumbs tap the steering wheel as he considers. “How about the night I gave you steak sauce?”
“That doesn’t count because I bought my own dinner, and you didn’t even stick around for dessert.” Not saying a woman can’t pay her own way on a first date, but I wouldn’t want to brag about that if anyone were to ask.
“Fine. The night I picked you up at the bar.”
“I don’t think fingering me through my pockets is a very good story to tell our grandkids.”
He chokes on a laugh, then sobers. We hit the traffic lights, and instead of turning left to the store, he hangs a right.
“Um, hello? The store’s that way.”
“We’re not going to the store.”
He drives to a little ice cream parlor right on the edge of the moonlit lake. The gravel crunches beneath his shoes as he runs around the front of the truck to open my door for me. He buys me a peanut butter milkshake, and I make fun of him for his plain vanilla ice cream.
Elliot insists vanilla is the building block of all the best sundaes and shakes, so I eventually let him have this win.
His shoulder bumps mine as he crunches his cone. “How was that for a first date?”
“Best first date I’ve ever been on.”
“It’s not over yet.”
“No?”
The strands at the front of his hair fall across his brow when he shakes his head. “Not at all.”
Our next stop is the grocery store.
Elliott insists I stand on the end of the cart like a little kid while he steers me up and down the aisles.
This is the first time I’ve been here and not been worried about money, which means I throw in a giant, family-sized package of extra quilted toilet paper and colorful boxes of high fructose everything.
Elliott plucks them right back out to read the labels.
Another flaw. Thank goodness.
He returns the boxes to the shelves, trading them for bland tan boxes with the word “organic” stamped across the front. “These are healthier.”
I guess I now understand how he got those abs of his—not that I’m complaining. I drop the red box back into the cart. “But these taste better.”
“How do you know? Have you tried these?” He gives his own box a shake.
“No, but…”
“But nothing.”
But everything. I gesture to his box. “Those are four times the price.” I don’t care how good they taste—and that has yet to be decided. I can guarantee you that they aren’t four times as yummy.
“And?”
“And I don’t really feel like spending a thousand dollars on groceries for the week.” Is this our first fight?
He drops both boxes into the cart, his jaw pulsing. “You’re not spending anything on groceries.”
“I’m not with you so you’ll buy me fancy food.”
“I know.” He steps closer, sandwiching me between the cold metal cart and his hard, hot chest. “You’re with me because I have a big dick and can make you come anytime you want.” He stamps a kiss to my cheek. “But I’m not letting my girlfriend foot the grocery bill.”
He takes a few steps back to wrap his fingers around the red handle, pushing the cart down toward the frozen food.
All I can do is stare at him.
Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit.
He’s almost to the end of the aisle before he realizes I’ve stalled in my tracks. “Loren?”
“You just called me your girlfriend.”
He leaves the cart, coming back to where I stand and propping his hands on his hips like he’s about to scold me. “Did we not already have this discussion back home?”
“Yeah, but you never used the words ‘boyfriend’ or ‘girlfriend.’”
He looks genuinely confused. “What did you think ‘dating’ meant?”
I have to remind myself that this guy was with the same woman for over a decade. He’s been single for a few years but apparently hasn’t entered the dating pool, more like dipped his toes in it. Meaning he clearly doesn’t understand our generation’s aversion to labels.
Giddiness wells up inside me, like I drank a bunch of celebratory champagne and it’s all bubbling to the surface. “I have a hot boyfriend with a massive dick,” I whisper from behind my hands with a giggle.
Mischief sparks in his sea-blue eyes. “And I have a sexy girlfriend with the sweetest pussy I ever tasted,” he says loud enough that anyone could hear.
“Elliott!”
“What?”
Who does he think he’s fooling with that innocent blink? “We’re in the middle of a grocery store.” There are two old ladies picking up frozen dinners right over there.
He arches an arrogant brow. “And? Too bad there aren’t any pockets in those yoga pants.”
I think I need to climb into one of those freezers because I am on fire.
Elliott takes my hand like he’s been doing it his whole life, and grins. “Good first date?”
Like I told him before: “The best first date I’ve ever been on.”