Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,117
long to find what I’m looking for. I grab the box off the shelf, cross to the refrigerator, and pull out everything I need.
Twenty minutes later, waiting for the pancakes to brown on the griddle, I retrieve my cellphone from my clutch purse and power it on. It doesn’t even faze me to see I’ve got another half-dozen voicemails and texts from Chrissy, but I wince when I realize I’ve missed another call from my landlord. I’ll have to call him back, as soon as it’s a reasonable hour.
There’s a text from my mother — Everything okay, honey? — probably because I’ve been ignoring her texts since the gala. Frankly, I don’t know what to say to her. Or, maybe, I’m afraid of what she’ll say to me, when I ask the questions Phoebe’s necklace-revelation prompted.
Maybe a little of both.
Chrissy’s messages range from forwarded Google alerts — Chase Croft Makes His Societal Debut with New Girlfriend! — to text messages threatening my life, if I don’t call her back with details sometime soon. Nothing unusual.
Which, I take it, means Brett hasn’t leaked the story to Phoebe and the media, yet.
A relieved breath escapes, just as two arms wrap around me from behind and a warm body presses against my back.
“Those are going to burn,” Chase whispers against the nape of my neck, his voice scratchy with sleep.
I turn in his arms, to face him. “Did I wake you?”
His forehead drops to rest against mine. “Felt you gone.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be, sunshine.” His arms tighten in a quick hug, then drop away as he turns, picks up the spatula, and starts flipping the pancakes. For a few minutes, I watch him moving around the stove with ease, his muscular forearms flexing as he wields kitchen utensils, pulls a platter from the cabinet on his left, and starts loading it up with perfect, golden-brown pancakes. There’s something sexy about watching a man cook — especially when he’s wearing nothing but black boxer briefs — and I swear, if I hadn’t already had all the sex my vagina could handle in the past eighteen hours, I’d be jumping his bones on the kitchen floor.
Again.
Chase grins as he slides a plate across the counter toward me, his eyes still a little drowsy, his hair still a little mussed. “Eat up, sunshine.”
“Thanks.”
He pushes the butter and a bottle of maple syrup toward me. “Here.”
“Yuck.” I wince, eyeing the brown bottle. “I hate syrup.”
“How is that even possible? Everyone likes syrup. It’s the best part.”
“Said the man who doesn’t like waffles.”
“Touché.” He grins. “You know, you still haven’t told me your middle name.”
“Not gonna happen.”
“Come on.”
“Nope.”
“It can’t be that bad, sunshine.”
“Trust me, it can.”
“You’ll tell me someday.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
He sighs and lets it go.
For now.
I slather my pancakes in butter as he shuts off the stove and settles in on the stool beside me. Cutting off a giant slice, I shove it in my mouth. I moan with satisfaction when the first bite hits my tongue, so hungry I barely bother to chew as I devour the stack on my plate.
Chase chuckles, but doesn’t tease me — he’s too busy shoving his own pancakes in his mouth.
“That was the best ever,” I breathe after I’ve cleared my plate, my hands resting on my stomach.
Chase snorts as he pushes his empty plate away. “Oh, really? Better than sex?”
“Definitely,” I tease, elbowing him in the side.
His eyes narrow, the look in them making my stomach flip. “Is that so?”
“What can I say? They were really good panca— hey!”
My squeal of protest is lost as Chase jumps off his barstool, so fast I barely see him move, plants his shoulder against my stomach, and throws me over his shoulder. I don’t even have time to form words, because before I know what’s happening, he’s marched us back into his room and tossed me down on the bed.
“Chase—”
He’s silent as he reaches for me, and the look on his face makes all the thoughts in my head flee. The t-shirt goes up over my head and disappears, Chase’s underwear vanishes like magic, and then, faster than I can blink, he’s on me, in me, grinding his body against mine in a slow, torturous pace that makes me forget about breakfast foods.
***
“Better than pancakes?” he asks, after we’ve both cooled down.
“I was just teasing, you know.” I press a kiss to his chest. “You didn’t have to go all caveman.”