Page 46 of Third Time Lucky

Palpably uncomfortable. That’s what this silence feels like. Also my tongue is swelling again.

I expected a few days to pass before I ran into him by the elevator or passed him in the lobby. I’d planned carefree smiles and witty one-liners, with minimal eye contact. I’d even partially roughed out a speech wishing him well when he found a house to move into.

I told you I didn’t get much sleep.

There’s no choice in this situation. I have to look at him. I know he’s waiting for it. He has been since I opened the door.

“Pancakes?” I say, finally gathering up the nerve to meet his gaze. “Your idea or hers?”

He looks as tired as I feel, the smile he wore in front of his daughter nothing but a memory. “It was her idea,” he starts. “But I didn’t discourage it. I thought that maybe we could—”

“Start fresh over breakfast?”

“Talk.” He notices the lightning bolt on my chest and his eyebrows go up. “The Flash?”

“You got a comic reference? I might be in shock.” I keep my voice light, but still cross my arms over my shirt self-consciously.

“My team filled me in when the press started using the nickname,” he admits dryly. “And yes, I got shit for not already knowing, so there’s no need to rub it in.”

Don’t think of rubbing things.

I keep my gaze locked with his, but it isn’t easy. “I don’t think pancakes are a good idea today.”

Elliot steps into my space before I can tell him to stop. “I’m an asshole, okay? I reacted badly because I—I wasn’t expecting that to happen.”

“You think I was?”

“No. I heard you talking about those dates and I… This is all on me.” His expression is so open, it’s impossible to doubt him. He’s not hiding anything. Not his regret or vulnerability. His determination to make it right.

“Have breakfast with me. With us. Give me a chance to make it up to you. Please.”

This isn’t in the script. Gay freak-outs are followed by aggressive avoidance or subtle hostility, not pancakes. Why is he always surprising me?

Why am I going to say yes?

Because you’re a masochist?

I toss my phone on the table and close the door behind me, managing to avoid getting too close. “I do love to eat. And I wouldn’t want Rue’s cooking going to waste.”

His relief hits me like a blast of sunlight between my shoulder blades as he follows me to his door. “This is the first time she’s wanted to make them. I had no idea she could. She told me her mom showed her how, but it was only for special occasions. You must have made an impression on her.”

I think about our five-second hallway meeting and shrug. “I’m a new element. That’s always exciting. It’s more likely that she’s trying to impress you with her skills.”

“The mess she’s making is impressive,” he grumbles lightly, his arm brushing my side as he reaches around me to open the door. “I might have to hire a cleaning crew.”

There’s a tiny red light blinking out a warning inside me, telling me not to be charmed into forgetting last night’s lesson so quickly. I like being around him and I want to get to know his daughter. As long as I don’t let myself think about his kiss, or that warm feeling in my chest when he smiles or says exactly the right thing, we should be fine.

“You might,” I agree when I finally get the look at George’s living room. This place definitely says penthouse.

The setup is similar to mine, but Elliot’s friend has a lot more furniture than I do, giving the apartment an expensively crowded feel. Large leather couches with overstuffed cushions. Reclining man-thrones. Squat bookshelves in every corner, and prominently displayed writing awards on the wall.

Matted and framed equals validation. At least we have that in common. But based on his décor alone, that and enjoying Elliot’s company might be the only things.

His style is what Tani would call opulent masculinity. Like a guy who wears a giant Rolex and douses himself in Axe body spray while talking about his money and how often he gets laid. And the pictures on the wall are… “What does George write about again?”

Before Elliot says a word, I’m willing to bet my cardboard Quinto that the man is obsessed with—

“Political thrillers.”

---