Page 30 of His To Erase
Tonight, he showed up with takeout from my favorite place—the hole-in-the-wall spot around the corner. It’s the kind of place you guard with your life so it doesn’t get popular, but still feel morally obligated to brag about like a well-earned personality trait.
And this fucker walks in holding a take-out container like it’s no big deal. With a twice-baked potato.
He broughtmyorder.
Something about that pissed me off more than it should have, because what are the chances?
Then he took a bite.
And fuck me if it wasn’t downright disrespectful how hot it was watching him.
That’smycomfort food and this motherfucker had the audacity to take two bites and push the container away like he was bored. Like my holy grail of post-shitty-day indulgence was a mild inconvenience.
I wanted to stab him.
Twice.
He offered it to me and I could’ve strangled him then too. Or dropped to my knees and let him feed it to me in a way that would’ve made everyone else in here extremely uncomfortable.
Honestly, it could’ve gone either way.
Later, when I passed his table to offer a refill, he barely looked up from his phone.
“You sure you don’t want it?” He asked, I’m sure just to prove a point.
I was starving and bitter that he was wasting the best potato in the city.
Rude.
By then, I was crashing and hangry—my stomach was hollow, my nerves were fried, and at that point, I was just tryingto survive on caffeine and stubbornness, so I gave in and ate the damn thing.
I nearly moaned when I took the first bite, it was that good.
Zero regrets.
He didn’t say a word after either. He didn’t watch me, didn’t make it weird. Nothing.
Then, when the bar thinned out and the night started closing in, he stood, dropped a hundred-dollar bill on the counter, and walked out. Like it was nothing.
But here I am, still thinking about it. Thinking about him. About what he was wearing…and how he looked wearing it. Not to mention watching him take those few bites of the potato will live rent free in my mind for a while.
Fuck.
I squeeze my thighs together, rolling onto my stomach, hating myself for this. Because it wasn’t just what he did tonight—it was how he looked doing it.
The loose black Henley, with the sleeves pushed up just enough to expose his inked forearms, those thick wrists, and his strong hands. I fantasize for a solid two minutes about those hands and what they could do.
And don’t even get me started on the gray sweatpants… Who wears sweats to a bar?
That was just cruel.
Goddammit.
I need to stop thinking about him.
That’s my last thought before sleep finally drags me under. But the past has never been kind enough to let me rest.
The first crack of thunder doesn’t wake me. Neither does the rain—rattling against the windows like it’s trying to get in. Not even the wind, screaming down the alley like something feral clawing at the walls can wake me.
