Sex On The Seats (Love After Midnight Book 4) Elise Faber (classic literature books txt) 📖

I measured flour into the bowl, added eggs and milk, a dollop of oil, a teaspoon of baking soda. No chocolate chips, since I’d used the last of them for the first six pancakes, but that was okay. They’d still be good. After whisking the ingredients together, I ladled the batter onto the griddle. “My mom taught me,” I said, watching the bubbles form on the back of the circles, growing and collecting until they covered the entire surface and popped, tiny craters telling me it was time to flip them.

I did so, aware of Niki coming closer, of her propping herself up on the counter as I turned each of the pancakes.

“What’s your favorite thing?”

My gaze flicked to hers. “To cook?”

She nodded.

“You’re asking me questions, now?”

A roll of deep brown eyes. “Yes, since it seems that I’m stuck with you, I might as well pull back the curtain.”

The smallest tendril of hope curled through me. She could have called a car, could have told me to leave. Instead, she’d come back to my apartment and was asking me questions about myself.

“Pasta,” I said, when I felt a shiver of impatience skate through her. “I have a family recipe for homemade spaghetti and Bolognese.”

“Mmm.” Her stomach rumbled, and I shook my head.

“How are you possibly hungry after six pancakes?”

“Don’t judge me,” she snapped. “I love food, and I love eating. Plus, my idea of pasta is opening a can and heating the slop in a microwave.”

I dropped the spatula, and it bounced off the tile.

“Tell me you’re kidding,” I muttered, scooping the utensil up and tossing it into the sink, then opening another drawer to retrieve another turner before snagging the plate from the table.

“If I don’t, will you make me that homemade pasta?”

“I’d make it for you either way.”

She went still for a moment then scooped up one of the griddle-fresh pancakes from the plate and took a huge bite. “Mmm.”

“It doesn’t even have the syrup on it.”

“I don’t care,” she said, the words almost indecipherable. “They’re still delicious.”

“Do you have a hollow leg?”

Her lips twitched. “You’re not funny. I sometimes forget to eat when I’m working, so I make up for it when I’m not.” She took another bite, chewed and swallowed. “Also, I really like food.”

I liked the last.

I hated the first.

“Why don’t you eat?”

A shrug. “I get carried away with my work, sometimes I glance up and the entire day has gone.”

“I get that,” I said, meaning it, knowing I’d done the same many times before.

She reached for another pancake as I ladled more batter then topped the ones on the plate with syrup and powdered sugar. As she ate the naked pancake, I retrieved the forks from the table and handed her hers. “I bet you do.” Her eyes flicked to the studio with my shrine to all things Dominque then back to mine, amusement drifting across her face. “Go on and eat,” she encouraged. “Before I scarf them down.”

I pushed the plate toward her. “Yours.”

I retrieved another from the cupboard. “Mine.”

Mirth had her lips turning up. “Probably for the best,” she said, scooping up a big bite. “What about painting, how’d you get into that?”

“I couldn’t ever imagine doing anything else.” I shrugged. “Luckily, I have some talent and an audience to buy them.”

Her brows dragged together. “So, why are you working in the bar?”

“Kace needed help,” I said, and when her brows didn’t relax, I added the rest of the truth. “And I needed a fresh start after my divorce.”

The fork was suspended an inch from her mouth. “Divorce?”

I nudged the tines closer. “Yup. I had the bad luck to both marry young and marry the wrong person.”

“I’m sorry.”

Since the pancakes were done, I flipped them on the plate then doused them liberally with sugar and syrup. “I’m not. It’s been official for about six months now, but it was over long before that.”

“Still sorry,” she said before slipping the bite into her mouth.

“We wanted different things.” I used the side of my fork to cut a chunk of pancakes. “Have you ever been serious with someone?” I asked, shoving the bite in while I waited to see if she would answer, if she’d give me something personal.

Brown eyes, deep pools of melted chocolate, met mine, hesitation in their depths. “Yes,” she murmured.

Three letters.

What some might consider a minimal response.

And yet, those three letters gave me a wealth of information.

Yes, she’d loved someone.

Yes, they’d broken something in her.

Yes, I wanted to rip them limb from limb for daring to hurt her.

She pushed the plate away, half the second helping of pancakes consumed but now accompanying a sick expression, and I knew that as much as I wanted to know everything that had happened, to ferret out each bit of information about the asshole, she was getting ready to run.

Which meant I needed to switch gears.

“Have you always lived in the Bay Area?” I asked.

She swallowed, rolling the fork between thumb and forefinger. “No, I moved here about a year ago. More of my business was on this coast, and I didn’t want to live in the city.”

“I know the feeling,” I said, thinking of this town we’d found ourselves in, just north of San Francisco, its peninsula approaching the Bay on one side and the ocean on the other, a quaint little downtown, low-slung buildings. There wasn’t any structure over three stories, and the colorful houses blended in with the parks and green space to create a small town feel with many of the amenities of a big city.

“Where’d you live before?” she asked.

“LA.”

“Hmm,” she murmured, her head tilting to the side, her eyes on my face as she studied me like I was a slide under a microscope.

I put down my fork. “What?”

“You don’t seem the LA type.”

That much was true. I’d grown up on the central coast of California, spending my days on the beach, surfing in water that was colder than the beaches of SoCal, and my nights