Page 83 of Crave Thy Neighbor

I feel I’ve recently become an expert on what Nolan finds pleasurable, and I can tell right away he loves my pancakes.

“Well?” Sam asks, watching him closely.

“Not bad.”

“Not bad?! They’re way better than the place my dad takes me, and that’s at, like, a restaurant. That’s gotta mean something.”

“Not true. Restaurants can suck at cooking too.”

“Yeah, like the diner my dad always goes to. Their food is so…blech.” He sticks his tongue out, shaking his head. “Dad has awful taste.”

“Hey! That is a direct insult to me, the woman he used to date.”

He shrugs. “I’m just stating facts, Mom.”

“Nolan’s right. You are a shithead.” I toss a hand towel at him.

“Hey! Not in the pancakes, lady!”

“Don’t call me lady. And go finish getting ready for school.”

“Do I have to go?”

“Yes. It’s illegal if you don’t, and I really don’t feel like going to jail.”

“Why can’t you live a little and break the law, Mom?”

“Yeah,Mom,” Nolan teases. “Live a little, huh?”

I point a finger at him. “I’ll send your ass to school right along with him.” I look at Sam. “Go brush your teeth.”

With a sigh, he pushes his empty plate across the counter. “Fine—but only because I’m looking forward to chicken nugget day at lunch.”

I shake my head as he slinks out of the kitchen. “Remind me again why I had a kid?”

“Because the condom broke?”

I laugh. “Fuck condoms.”

“I agree.” Heat blazes in his eyes, and I bet he’s thinking about the same thing I am.

How just an hour ago I was snuggled in his bed after a long night of us trying our hardest to be quiet during sex where we definitelydid notuse a condom.

“Speaking of…” He leans across the counter and I match his movements, dragging my tongue along my bottom lip as he stares at me like he wants to kiss me senseless.

“Hey, Nolan?” Sam says, shuffling down the hall.

We jump apart like we’ve been doing something we shouldn’t be.

And really, we shouldn’t be.

We’ve done a good job of keeping this hidden from Sam, and we need to continue doing so. He doesn’t need to see us together, thinking this is something it’s not—something permanent.

“I was wondering,” he continues, popping around the corner, “I’m having a talent show at school in a couple of weeks. Dean’s teaching me how to play the guitar. You’re coming, right?”

“Talent show, huh?” He runs his hand over his chin, pretending to think. I’ve noticed he’s been keeping the growth on his face for a few days before shaving it off, and I suspect it has everything to do with me and how much I like it. “Depends on what song Dean is teaching you. He has awful taste in music.”

“He keeps trying to make me sing Bob Slinger songs, and I hate them.”

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