Reading Online Novel

Sweet Nothing(50)



“Good.” He kisses my cheekbone, my earlobe, and my jaw. Stirring me. “Now go sit down. Breakfast is ready.”

Reluctantly, I tear myself away and take my place at the dining room table while Luke busies himself in the kitchen. I watch him flipping pancakes and spooning yogurt and honey into ceramic containers. He’s humming something under his breath as he works. A tune I don’t recognize.

“So, hypothetically, if I wanted to know what happened last night…” I reach for my coffee mug, which is clearly homemade. Probably by one of Luke’s students, judging from the sagging handle that’s not quite wide enough to fit two fingers.

“What do you think happened last night?”

“Um…” I sip my coffee. It’s rich and dark, with a hint of flavor. Hazelnut, I think. It spreads through me quickly, tugging the last bits of sleep away. “I had a perfectly appropriate amount to drink, and then I went to sleep on your couch like the lady I am?”

His laugh bounces from the ceiling. “Try again.”

“Okay, okay. I’ve got it. I had a perfectly appropriate amount to drink, you threw yourself shamelessly at me, I let you down gently, and then I went to sleep on your couch. Like the lady I am.”

“Well, that scenario makes me want to curl into a ball and weep.” He carries two plates to the table, piled high with pancakes.

“Weep?” I snort. “Ooh. Yum. What’s on top of the pancakes?”

“Yes, weep. And greek yogurt, honey, and crushed walnuts.” Luke rests the plates on the table, then sits down next to me.

“Sounds great. Thanks for breakfast. And for…”

“For making sure you were comfortable after we talked for a while, kissed for a while, and fell asleep early? And for then going upstairs to my own bed, like the gentleman I am?”

“Ohhh, right. Now I remember how lame we are.”

“Not lame!” Luke protests. “I had a really good time last night, actually. A great time. I just… I know the last couple of days have been kind of rough. I wanted to give you your space.”

I smile at him and take my first bite. The pancakes are fluffy and sweet. “These are amazing. Seriously, really good.”

“Cool.” He looks proud. “Yiayia taught me how to make pretty much everything she makes. Which means I’ve got a lot of good meals up here.” He taps his temple with his index finger. “So maybe you’ll let me cook for you again?”

Looking at him blurs my doubts, and I know that’s dangerous. But I let myself take him in—his wide, open eyes; the way they seem brighter when he looks at me. The man wants to take care of me. And everything in me wants to let him. For once, I don’t want to be the responsible one. The one who’s tending to Aria or trying to protect everyone from my mother. For once, I want someone to tend to me. Is that so selfish?

“Yeah. Sure, I think.” I wrap my hands around my coffee mug and breathe in the earthy, sweet steam rising from the cup. “Listen, Luke, I—”

“It’s okay. I’m not saying anything, except that I like cooking for you. And I’m just hoping you’ll let me do it again. No pressure.”

I nod.

“Good.” His gaze slides to a spot just over my head. “Okay. A little pressure, actually. Because I’ve been talking too much and we’re now officially late.”

I check the clock in the kitchen. “LUKE!”

“I know, I know. Go on. I’ll clean this stuff up.” He shoves back his chair and hurries to the door, scooping up my sandals. “No time for these. Here.”

“I hate you for this, by the way. Some of us teach first period, you know.” I toss back the rest of my coffee like a freshman girl downing a shot at her first dive bar. “Have you seen my bag? Wait. Got it.”

“Hate me? How could you hate a man who cooks for you?” He dumps my shoes into my arms and gives me a quick kiss on the mouth. “See you at school.”

“Yeah. See you there.” I stash my shoes in my bag and hurry outside to my car, clawing through the depths of my purse to find my keys. Once I find them, it’s a matter of milliseconds before I’m peeling out of Luke’s driveway so fast, I smell smoke and rubber. Oops.

I glance into my rearview as I turn onto the street. He’s still standing in the doorway in his pajamas. His hair is messy and wild from sleep, like he’s a little kid who’s just awakened from a nap. He lifts his hand in an easy wave.

The cottage is silent when I burst through the front door, slinging my sandals under the table in the entryway and making a mad dash for my bathroom. I turn the brushed silver handles inside the shower and jump in before the water has time to warm, dunking my head beneath the frigid spray. I wash my hair but have no time to shave. Pants. I need pants.