Page 29 of Forever & Always You
There aren’t many things that can pull me out of a deep sleep, but a single whiff of pancakes is guaranteed to do it. My eyes ping open and I glance to my left, but Austin isn’t fast asleep by my side. From somewhere in my kitchen, I hear the clang of a pan.
If there are potentially pancakes up for grabs, I absolutely must investigate.
Throwing back my comforter, I hop out of bed and head through to the kitchen. Even though I suspected it already, it’s still a jolt to my system to find Austin freaking Pierce standing in my cramped kitchen wearing last night’s clothes, flipping pancakes and humming to himself.
“Good morning,” he says over his shoulder, sensing me approach.
“What are you doing?”
“You made me pancakes at my place on a Sunday morning, so I’m returning the favor,” he explains. “They probably—okay, definitely—won’t be as good as yours, but I’ve given it a shot, anyway. I was just about to come surprise you.”
“Can’t sleep through pancakes,” I say.
His laugh is delicate as he stacks the pancakes onto plates, and that’s when I notice he’s even poured out two glasses of juice and looked out my family-sized bottle of maple syrup.
I haven’t had anyone make me breakfast since I left home for college at eighteen, and my chest pangs with a cruel burst of nostalgia.
I can’t bear it sometimes, that painful realization that certain chapters of my life are over.
I will never be a teenager eating pancakes on a Sunday with my father ever again, and that’s such a hard truth to swallow, it makes me feel physically ill.
“What? Do they look terrible?” Austin asks with concern as he spins toward me, plates in hand.
“No .?.?. No, they look perfect,” I reassure him. “I’m sorry I have no kitchen table.”
We sit down on my raggedy old couch together and I drown my stack of pancakes in so much maple syrup, I may as well just be eating the maple syrup with a side of pancakes rather than the other way around, and Austin watches on in despair.
“Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously,” I say, biting into a forkful. “Your pancakes are pretty good.”
“I’m surprised you can taste them,” he grumbles, and I retaliate by adding a tiny bit more syrup while looking him dead in the eye.
I will not be judged for my maple syrup consumption.
“You know this means we’ve started a tradition now, don’t you?” I point out. “We now have to eat pancakes every Sunday we’re together. And if we’re not at my place or yours, we have to hunt down a diner.”
“I think I can get on board with that.”
“You think ? No, you will. ”
“Pancakes on Sundays,” he agrees, holding up his hands in surrender. His eyes brighten as an idea flashes through his mind, and he sets his plate down on the coffee table and gets to his feet. “Do you have paper anywhere?”
“Top drawer on the right,” I say, pointing over to the kitchen. “Why?”
Austin doesn’t give me a reason. He grabs a sheet of paper from the drawer and an engraved Pierce Wealth Management ballpoint pen from the pocket of his jeans, then sits back down on the couch next to me. I hunch forward to watch over his shoulder as he sets the paper down on the coffee table.
He writes, in pretty damn perfect handwriting: We’ll have pancakes on Sundays.
Underneath, he signs his name with a very sexy, very professional signature. Nothing like the scrawled Austin Pierce he once wrote at the age of twelve.
At one point in time, my taste in men was tradesmen who were a little rough around the edges and covered in dirt after a day’s work. I’m realizing very quickly my type is now businessmen in suits with engraved ballpoint pens and sturdy office desks.
“What do you say?” Austin asks, sliding the piece of paper toward me and offering me the pen.
I take the pen from him, but hesitate before signing my name. “Our agreements in the past haven’t turned out that well .?.?.”
“I’m hoping you’ve learned enough from past mistakes that you won’t break this one.”
My chest tightens, and I know we’re only goofing around and talking about pancakes, but it feels like this is about so much more.
We’re still repairing our friendship, and although there is a romantic layer this time around that is still developing, I know that at the very least, we will be friends.
I made him that promise last night, so I go ahead and sign my name alongside his.
“I think you should be the one to hold on to it,” I say, handing back his pen.
Austin folds up the paper several times until it’s nothing but a tiny square, then tucks it into the front pocket of his jeans. “I’m sorry I tore up the last one. I wish now we still had it.”
I take another bite of my syrup-drenched pancakes and shrug. “It was just a piece of paper. It’s okay. And I did break that agreement, so .?.?.”
Austin smiles. “I know, but it also brought you back to me in the end.”
Our eyes lock and, for a very long time, neither of us say anything. The butterflies in my stomach are multiplying at such speed, they rise all the way up my throat, rendering me speechless.
I hate myself a little bit for never realizing how sweet Austin was back when we were kids, because his confidence and wit may be a natural result of him growing up, but his pure, kind nature has always been ingrained in him.
“Oh, I can’t believe I forgot to tell you,” Austin says, breaking our eye contact as he grabs his phone. “The shelter is hosting an adoption event next month. Check this out.”
I nod eagerly as Austin shows me the flyer that’s started being shared on the Saving Paws Animal Rescue’s social media pages—the flyer I roped Zach, my super-duper graphic designer brother, into creating.
“That sounds amazing!” I exclaim, but I study economics, not acting, so I’m not sure how well I pull it off.
Because what Austin doesn’t know is that I’m the organizer.
The past few days, in between my daily shift at the bar, I’ve been making far too many phone calls for a woman who fucking hates making phone calls.
I’ve been in constant back and forth with Fiona from the shelter as together we work through all of the details.
I’m in the process of finalizing catering, and I have an incredible pet photographer lined up to take new photos of the dogs for the website, hopefully wearing the adorable party hats I’ve ordered.
I’ve hired the largest dog park in Wilmington for an entire afternoon, and I’m currently working on nailing down activities for kids, but finding bounce houses to hire during the summer is proving challenging.
Hopefully, the event will draw in a good crowd and some of the dogs will find their new homes. Especially Teddy.
“We’ll definitely have to be there,” Austin says.
I smile. “Oh, for sure.”
I could tell Austin that I’m the one behind the event, but I’m rather enjoying doing something meaningful for once without seeking any praise. He won’t know it, but the conversation we had in his office two weeks ago about my father cast a terrible realization over me.
Twenty years from now, I don’t want the first thing anyone thinks when they hear my name to be “oh, that mean girl from high school” or “that bitch from the bar.” I want people to think of me the same way they think of my father, with respect and admiration, and I have a long way to go before I reach that point.
I have to start somewhere, so I’m taking a page out of my dad’s book and starting with charity work.
“I hope lots of the dogs get adopted.”
“They will,” Austin assures me.
We scoff the remainder of our pancakes and since Austin made them, it’s only fair I do the dishes.
The morning seems to fly by, not least because I need to be back at the bar for opening at twelve and Austin needs to head home to Wilmington to hit the streets for a sixteen-mile run, so the time to say our goodbyes rolls around much faster than I’d like.
On the drive to the bar, he clears his throat and says, “There’s something I’d like to ask you.” When I throw him a panicked glance in response to the seriousness of his tone, he laughs and adds, “Don’t worry. It’s nothing bad.”
“What would you like to ask me?”
His hands twitch with a hint of nerves as he toys with them in his lap. “I found out yesterday the firm is shortlisted for a business award, and the ceremony is over in Charlotte at the end of next month. Nice dinner. Nice hotel. I was hoping you’d come?”
“Congratulations!” I say, but my enthusiasm travels all the way to my hands and I accidentally swerve into the opposite lane.
“ Gabby ,” Austin says, grabbing the wheel. “I’d like to actually attend these awards, please.”
“Sorry,” I apologize sheepishly, glancing sideways at him. “Of course I’ll come, Austin.”
He exhales a deep breath of relief just as I pull up in the alley outside of the bar. His car is still parked around here somewhere, wherever he left it last night, and it’s time for him to head home after our impromptu sleepover.
“I’m sorry you have to run sixteen miles,” I say.
“I’m sorry you have to deal with the drunks,” he says.
“Hey, I made a fortune in tips last night thanks to some extremely generous bachelor. He was pretty cute, too.”
Austin cracks into laughter and gets out of the car. So do I, and we stare over the roof of the vehicle at one another, not quite willing to say goodbye yet.
“So I’ll see you next weekend? And the weekend after that for the adoption event? And the weekend after that ?” Austin asks.
I pout at him, now hyper aware that he enjoys it when I do. “Are you sure we can’t help out by adopting Teddy ourselves?”
“You don’t give up, do you?”
“Nope.” I drum my fingertips over the roof of my car and narrow my eyes challengingly, seductively. “Are you going to kiss me before you go?”
Austin strides around the car, clasps my waist, and kisses the hell out of me.