Page 21 of American Love Story

“That sounds great.” There was that smile. Like the fucking sun.

“Good.” The way he said that, like I’d just offered him the exact thing he needed, made my gut tighten with want. “Is there anything you don’t like?”

“Nah man, I’m good with everything, as long as I don’t have to cook it.”

He laughed and looked so pleased. And if I was being honest, I felt good, too. I wanted to keep that going. Always see Easton smiling.

“Well, I love to cook. I love feeding people, too. Now I’ll know who to call when I make too much food.” My stupid heart lurched at that.

“I’m always up for getting spoiled a little.” That wasn’t a lie, between my mom and the guys’ mothers, we were always getting fed.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Suddenly something changed and Easton’s eyes were smoldering. What had I said? Who the fuck cared? I ran my eyes over him, and he stood there for a moment letting me take him in. After a while, he exhaled and gestured toward the ceiling.

“I’ll go and get things started. It’ll take me like thirty minutes. Come up whenever you want okay?”

“Okay, I’ll just wash up and come up. Thanks.”

It was starting to become startlingly clear for me that when Easton called, I would have a very hard time not running.

Easton

“I brought the champagne to have with dinner. It smells great in here.” I looked up and saw Patrice walking into my apartment. He had the bottle of Veuve I brought him in one hand, and it looked like he’d showered before coming up. He had another pair of those fitted sweats he wore that molded to his thighs, and a long-sleeved Cornell t-shirt. He looked edible. His big body filling up the room and robbing me of oxygen.

“Hey, come in. I’m just finishing up the vegetables. Do you like green beans?”

“Sure.” Patrice came up to the kitchen and I pointed at one of the stools on the counter. “Take a seat. I’ll open this.” I took the bottle from him and went to open it as Patrice’s eyes followed my movements.

I poured us each some wine and handed him the glass, then lifted mine. “To all your accomplishments this year. May it only be the beginning.”

Patrice made a sound between a grunt and a “thank-you” and we both took a sip. I turned around to start plating the salmon fillet, green beans, and curried pearl couscous I’d made us for dinner. He sat there quietly watching me move around the kitchen. I’d changed, too, and was in an old pair of jeans and sweatshirt, but the way his eyes kept landing on my ass told me that he was not as unfazed as he’d like to pretend he was.

“That looks amazing, Easton.” He sounded pleased. Patrice’s voice was deep and he always spoke carefully, every word measured. Whenever he said my name, it seemed to sound different to how everyone else said it. I didn’t know if it was because from the start, I never knew where I stood with Patrice that made me crave for his attention.

“Thanks. We can eat over here.” I gestured with my head, walking out of the kitchen with the two plates in my hand, setting them down on the dining table. I felt such a thrill from the simple act of preparing this food for Patrice. Taking care of him like this. I was not a nurturer, but I suspected he was not one to let others do things like this for him, and that made it even more significant to have Patrice here.

I gestured for him to come over as I finished setting the food down and was about to go back to the kitchen for my glass when Patrice gracefully reached over and grabbed it then stood up to join me.

He was such a big man. His size was intimidating, but he moved like a dancer. No sudden movements. He took very good care of his body and he was careful with his gestures. In a few strides, he got to me and handed me my glass.

“Here you go.” He smelled crisp like the ocean, and I wanted to get closer and run my nose up his neck.

“Still using the same cologne?”

My voice sounded just on this side of breathless, because that scent, of the cologne and his skin, brought me right back to someof those nights we had together last summer. Me slowly roaming over his body, then straddling him to take him inside me. My nose buried in his neck, his arms tight around me as we moved together. No one had ever made me feel like Patrice did.

“Yeah, same one.” His voice pulled me out of the incendiary image and when I looked up, the heat in his eyes said he at least suspected where my mind had gone.

“It still smells amazing on you.” We stood there, bodies tight and alert, from the proximity as we both looked at our plates set on the table. I remembered that first night we were together, how he’d picked me up and laid me out right on this table and fucked me within an inch of my life. Patrice could make me feel so good; it was hard not to go back to wanting that when he was this close.

After another second of hard staring, Patrice pulled out a chair and gestured for me to sit. This was another thing about Patrice that always charmed me. He was so courteous.

I bit back a smile as I sat. “You’re always such a gentleman.”

He lifted a shoulder and took the seat across from mine. “My mom was pretty intense about manners. She had this thing about needing to show ‘the kind of people’ we were. When we moved here, we had a hard time. We were black and refugees. There wasn’t exactly a welcome wagon if you know what I mean. So we needed to always be beyond reproach.” He laughed, but he sounded hurt.

I put my fork down and tried to stay as still as possible because I knew in my gut that this, Patrice talking about his past, did not happen very often.

He shook his head and looked at me as he gently placed his fork and knife on either edge of his plate. Just like my mother had always pestered me to do when I was a kid. I held back the barrage of questions that were on the tip of my tongue and let him take his time.