“It’s news to me, too.” I muster up a laugh just before we fall asleep.
***
Phoebe
Ty’s bed is soft and warm, and the sun is high in the sky. I got a solid three hours of sleep last night, and I’m counting that as a win. But I can’t lie here any longer. It’s a Saturday morning, so I hate to wake him, but I’m bored out of my mind, and my phone is dead. Ugh. I crawl out of bed and stretch. It takes me a minute to locate my clothes, but I do, and then I slip them on. There’s no one in the hall and I figure I might be in the clear.
Just as I reach the staircase, I hear it. Sweet Lord in heaven. Is someone playing Beyonce? I make my way into the kitchen to find a mostly naked man, singingAll the Single Ladiesat full volume, and standing at the stove flipping pancakes. He turns as I enter. “Hey, Phoebe. We haven’t officially met yet. I’m Whit. I’d shake your hand, but…” He gestures with the spatula. “Blueberries or chocolate chips?”
“What’s that?” I missed his question. That’s because he’s standing at the stove with his bare ass hanging out. He turns toward me and I can see that his apron--the only article of clothing he’s wearing--reads:Aprons are just a cape on backwards.
“Blueberries or chocolate chips?” he repeats. “You know, for your pancakes? Don’t tell me you eat them empty? Fallon, one of Booker’s sisters, eats them empty, but she’s the only one who can get away with that shit.”
“Chocolate chips, please.” I smile and help myself to a cup of coffee with some creamer while Whit resumes his post--and his song. He’s belting it out and he’s killing it. “You can really sing,” I tell him just as he hangs on that last note.
“There’s a 200 lb man dressed in only an apron making pancakes at 7 a.m. andthat’syour takeaway? We’re keeping you.” This comes from Booker, the blond, athletic guy from the coffee shop. Whit has moved onto the next song on his playlist, and is paying little attention to us.
“I mean, at least he’s covered? Mostly. And Ty wasn’t kidding. His voice is incredible.” I say as Booker pours himself a cup of coffee.
We sit together at the counter and he nods in Whit’s direction. “Yea, he can definitely sing. Don’t get me wrong--I love it. But it’s Saturday and I have a late game. I was hoping he’d hold off until at least 8.”
“No can do,” Whit tells us as he places plates of steaming pancakes in front of us. He then brings a tray filled with butter and syrup and powdered sugar. And the syrup is warm. “It’s pancake Saturday,” he says, as though that explains everything.
I take a bite and fail at holding back a moan.
“Awesome, right?” Booker asks. “You should come for dinner some night. Whit’s an incredible cook. If it weren’t for him and my mom, we’d probably starve,” he jokes.
“Can you come to dinner tomorrow?” Whit asks.
“Um, yea. I don't see why not. But Ty--”
Booker laughs. “Trust us. Ty will be thrilled you’re coming for Sunday dinner.”
“Should I bring anything?” I mean we are all in college, but still. That’s what you do, right?
“Nope, just bring yourself. Unless you can bake brownies. In that case, bring those,” Whit tells me.
I smile. “It’s a date.”
Chapter 11
Ty
I roll over to find Phoebe’s side of the bed empty. And yea, we’ve been together all of five minutes and I’m already thinking of this as our bed. I was right: the sheets do smell like her--warm vanilla with a hint of lavender. It’s intoxicating. Memories of what we did here, in this bed last night, rush over me. I reach beneath the covers, taking myself in hand. God, I’m hard as granite, just remembering the feel of her body against mine. The soft swell of her breasts as I sucked them, the sweet curve of her hip as I gripped her tightly, tasting her. I jack myself, the strokes quick and rough as I drive myself to completion.
I grab a t-shirt and clean myself up, then toss it in the hamper. I miss her already. I check my phone and see that she sent a goodbye text a few hours ago. Belatedly, I remember her saying she had a thing for one of her classes. They’re going to a local harvest festival to help kids paint pumpkins, I think. Or she’s on face-painting duty? Either way, it’s a fall fest, and my girl will be there most of the day.
I slip on a fresh t-shirt and some sweats and head downstairs in search of breakfast. I have no doubt Whit was cooking up a storm at the ass-crack of dawn, but that’s one of the many advantages of being a heavy sleeper--his singing never wakes me up.
Blessedly, there’s still coffee in the pot, and it’s still hot. I pour a cup, forgoing any of the cream crap Knox and Whitman drown their life-water in.
All three of my best friends are in the living room, chilling on couches and watching ESPN.
“Morning, sunshine!” Whit bellows, though I’m wide awake, and it’s almost noon.
“Dude, this is late, even for you,” Knox says, crossing his feet on the coffee table, which drives Whit nuts. “Were you up all night?” Knox smirks, and Booker smacks him.
“Phoebe left a couple hours ago, said to tell you to have a good day. Whit made pancakes and we had breakfast together. She’s good people, Ty.” Booker’s sincere, and he’s a good judge of character.
