Page 33 of Fun Together (Make Romance #1)

Faye

The sound of paper rustling wakes me up.

I peek my eyes open, and the room is bright, with light streaming in through the window next to the bed. I hear a low, muttered, “Damn it” and roll over to see Eli sitting at the desk. The back of his hair is sleep-mussed and sticking up every which way. It’s so endearingly boyish.

“What are you doing?”

He turns at the sound of my voice and holds up a notepad. “Shoot, sorry if I woke you up. I was writing you a note.”

“What does it say?”

He sits on the edge of the bed and holds the paper up so I can see it.

“ Have breakfast with me ?” is written next to a rudimentary sketch of a plate of waffles. He drew a heart at the bottom with his name below it.

“I messed up the drawing,” he says, leaning down to kiss me on the forehead. “I think my waffles want to be pancakes.”

“I like them. Can I still have it?”

He hands it to me and I bring it up to my face to hide my smile. It’s so incredibly cute, I feel like a giddy thirteen-year-old.

He looks at me, expectantly. “Well?”

“I’d love to have breakfast with you,” I say.

We get dressed and decide that he’ll drive us to breakfast and then back here so I can get my car.

The further we get away from his parents’ house, the more nervous I begin to feel. That giddiness I felt after reading his note is becoming blacked out by an impending sense of uncertainty.

It feels like I’m leaving a fantasy world.

“Where are we going, anyway?” I ask him.

“It’s a surprise.”

“You know I hate surprises.”

“You’ll like it, I promise.”

I glance over at him and he’s happily tapping his thumbs against the steering wheel in tune to the music. Not a care in the world.

Meanwhile, I am freaking out over last night. Over the past twenty-four hours, really. I knew that my list had nothing to do with why we wanted to have sex with each other, but I didn’t think it would be this . . . transformational for me.

I feel vulnerable, like he’s seen a part of me I can’t take back. Not that I want to take last night back, but there’s this longing now for something that I can’t have. I try to silence the voice in my head that says, You don’t even know what you want. You’re going to hurt him, too.

I look out the window and watch the scenery pass us by. It’s still early but already hot, and the asphalt shimmers on the highway as we drive.

“Do you want me to ask what’s wrong, or would you like to stew a little longer?”

“Nothing is wrong. I’m just tired.” It’s true. We didn’t exactly get much sleep last night.

He leaves it alone at that. And then he pulls into a parking lot, and I see where he’s taking me.

My spirits lift a little when I see the familiar yellow sign. I smile over at him. “I love Waffle House.”

“I know you do.” He opens his car door. “Come on, cranky, there’s nothing a little sausage grease won’t solve.”

It’s not busy at all, and we take a booth by the window. I stare down at the laminated menu and the words and images run together into a mass of imaginary text that promises, “ Waffles first, worries later. ”

It’s hard to be in a weird mood when you’re seated beneath big, globed lights with a plate of syrup-drenched waffles in front of you.

The waiter comes by to take our order, filling our mugs up to the brim with coffee.

Eli immediately takes a sip, slurping loudly to avoid burning his mouth. “Ah, I love diner coffee.”

“You like all coffee.” I smile at him, hoping to dispel the tension I created because I can’t just exist and enjoy a moment. I have to chew on it like a piece of gum that went stale hours ago.

He leans back in the booth. “So . . . let’s have at it.”

“Have at what?”

“Our first argument. I feel like it’s about to happen.” He rubs his hands together like he’s excited at the prospect.

“What are you talking about?”

“You spent the whole drive here looking out the window like I was driving you to the gallows. Something is bothering you.” He tilts his head. “Or annoying you.”

“I’m not annoyed.” I take a gulp of coffee, and it burns the roof of my mouth. “Ouch. I’m . . . confused.”

“Okay,” he says patiently. “What are you confused about?”

“Us!” That comes out way louder than I mean it to. A bit softer, I add, “How are we supposed to be around each other now?” We were supposed to talk all this through before having sex, but clearly we got derailed.

“Look, I’m just gonna say it. The sex we had last night was the best I’ve ever had.”

I fidget at this, feeling heat rise up my neck to my face.

His hair is still wet from showering—a shower we took together—and I’m only human.

I know how that stubble along his jaw feels against the inside of my thighs now.

I know what it feels like to curl up in the security of his arms. “It was amazing,” I say, unable to keep the tiniest hint of despair from my voice.

“Why do you say that in such a sad way?”

“Sorry, I don’t mean to sound sad. I just don’t want us to regret anything.” There’s also the Andrew-sized elephant in the booth with us that we haven’t talked about. “And I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

He looks at me sincerely, and I know he understands. “We won’t hurt him.”

I swallow, not ready to give up the fight. This need to convince myself and him that we can’t do this is overwhelming. Get out while you still can , or whatever.

“There’s something else, isn’t there?” he asks.

What about feelings? I want to ask him, but we haven’t even begun to broach the subject of something more than sex between us.

After last night, I’m scared to acknowledge this other thing floating out there that I think he feels too, but I’m not completely sure.

“I don’t know if I can do a casual thing with you. You’re used to that, but I’m not.”

There’s a brief flash of annoyance on his face before the waiter arrives with our food. Is he annoyed that I’m overthinking this?

“Do you want a relationship with—” he pauses and clears his throat. “Are you looking for a relationship?”

I hesitate because of course he asks up front like that, and it makes me squirm. I don’t know what I want, and that’s the fucking problem.

“What are you looking for right now?” I move my hand back and forth between us to imply that I’m asking what he’s looking for with us.

I also recall how he wanted to start trying to find someone, after realizing he’s never been in love before.

Are we going down that road, or am I going to keep him from finding that with someone else if we continue whatever this is.

He takes a bite of his hash browns and doesn’t answer for a few seconds. “I think we owe it to ourselves to keep exploring this.”

“What happens when we get tired of each other?” I ask. I fold my straw wrapper into an accordion to give myself something to do with my hands.

“That’s not going to happen.”

I pick up my fork and set it back down. “But it might. I think we just say the casual sex thing has been checked off the list and go back to being friends.”

It’s a pathetic defense and I know he sees how weak it is. He sighs and taps his fingers on the table. “Faye, you and I know we’re never going to be just friends. We passed that point after I gave you instructions on how to get yourself off in the tub.”

“You’re just bringing that up to get me flustered.”

“You’re very cute when you’re flustered. You get this red splotch right under your right ear. I want to kiss it.”

Damn him for countering my pathetic defense with his charming one. “My splotch is not cute. And you can’t kiss me in a Waffle House.” I toss the straw wrapper at him.

He holds the menu up, hiding our faces, and leans over to kiss me on the cheek.

“Hey,” he says to get my attention. “I understand how you’re feeling, and I don’t want to do anything that would cause anyone harm. But I want to keep spending time with you.”

I want that, too. So much. But I’m scared. “Promise me one thing.”

“Anything.”

“Promise me if you meet someone you want to pursue, that you’ll do it, and not feel bad for me.”

“Faye . . .”

“Promise,” I insist. This somehow gives me comfort—he’ll have the freedom to leave our arrangement whenever he wants.

“Believe me, when I decide to pursue someone, you’ll be the first to know.”