Home > Forked (Frenched #2)(17)

Forked (Frenched #2)(17)
Author: Melanie Harlow

“There might not be a seat for me,” I said as we entered. The music seemed louder, the crowd noisier. “This is a popular place.”

“Oh, I think I can squeeze you in somewhere. Give me a minute.” He patted my shoulder before disappearing into the kitchen, and I stared at his ass as he walked away, thinking that I’d like to squeeze him in somewhere. A couple places, actually.

I chewed on one side of my lower lip. Had I really made a no-sex rule? Perhaps I’d been too hasty. Perhaps there was some…wiggle room allowed when good friends spent the weekend together. A moment later Nick re-appeared with an extra bar stool, which he fit in at the end of the bar, flirting shamelessly with the woman whose chair he had to move in order to make a spot for me. Years ago I’d have been furious at the way he made another woman blush and giggle, but now I sort of liked the way she eyed me with jealous appreciation after seeing how solicitous Nick was of me, how eager to please.

While I waited for my food, I watched him move through the restaurant, greeting customers, taking pictures with fawning women, and stopping to chat with tables here and there. I had no doubt his down-to-earth nature and friendly accessibility was part of what made his place so popular. As cocky as he was, it didn’t seem like he’d let his success go to his head. He worked as hard as the servers, no task beneath him—he delivered meals, poured beers, mopped up spills, replaced napkins, checked the restrooms. I smiled at his disheveled hair when he brought me my burger and fries. After setting it in front of me, he stole a fry from my plate.

“You could ask first.” I laid my napkin on my lap.

“Just testing the doneness. I want it all perfect for you, cupcake.”

“Right.” I picked up the burger, trying to look pretty since he was still standing there behind the bar, watching me take the first bite. But it’s hard to look feminine and eat a big thick burger dripping with fixings—kind of like trying to look graceful while giving a really good blow job—so I gave up on grace and went for gusto. I was rewarded with a huge bite bursting with flavors—I tasted the cinnamon and pine nuts and parsley my grandmother cooked with, and the minty cucumber yogurt sauce was the perfect match for whatever was giving it a kick.

“And?” Nick looked eager to hear my opinion. “What do you think?”

“Delicious,” I said, setting the burger down to wipe my mouth. “Sitty would be proud. What’s giving it the heat?”

“Harissa. You like it?”

“I love it.”

Nick grinned, pleased with himself. “I’ll let you eat. Sure you just want water to drink? We have some really good local beers.”

I nodded. “I’m sure.” I had to drive home eventually, and I wasn’t much of a beer drinker anyway. But maybe I’d pack a bottle of something good in my suitcase for the weekend. I couldn’t believe Nick and I were going to the farm—I had thought I’d never see that place again.

Immediately I imagined that old blanket under the stars.

God, I missed that kind of romance. I mean, certainly I hadn’t been celibate the past seven years. There had been a fair amount of sex, some of it good, some of it bad, none of it amazing. And I’d dated one guy for a decent amount of time two years ago, but I couldn’t recall doing anything like Nick and I used to do—midnight skinny dipping, sex in the orchard, naked Scrabble. At the time, I’d told myself that we’d been crazy romantic because we were just kids—not even out of our teens when we met.

But what if it went deeper than that? What if we were supposed to be together?

What if all this party nonsense with Angelina was just a great big ruse the universe had arranged to put us back in each other’s orbits?

What if I’d never gotten over Nick because no matter what I did or who I dated or where I went in the world, every possible avenue just led me right back here to him?

A chill rattled my bones, and I wanted to believe it was the air conditioning, but part of me knew better. I believed in fate, believed in it absolutely. I believed in feelings and signs. But I had a much easier time dealing with them when they weren’t indicating I should let a wolf play with a lamb.

All right, maybe not a lamb. I wasn’t totally innocent here, not with the way I kept looking at his butt. But who could blame me?

I sucked up the last of my ice water through a straw and watched Nick pose for a picture with a young woman who then asked for a hug. A familiar jealousy gnawed at me when I saw her arm wrap around his waist and his arm circle her shoulders.

Get over it. You’re only friends now, remember?

Right. Friends.

But damn, his ass looked mighty fine in those jeans. And I knew—I knew—what it looked like naked. That’s what made this even harder. It wasn’t as if Nick was some unknown quantity, some guy I met who was attractive but off limits for whatever reason. I’d known every inch of his body intimately, and he’d known mine. I knew the exquisite pleasure of being ravaged by that mouth, those hands, that cock. Fuck yes, that cock. My panties grew damp as I remembered what it felt like between my breasts, between my lips, between my legs. I knew the sound of his voice telling me he wanted me, loved me, needed me. I knew his gasps and moans and silences. I knew the throb of his heart against mine, the whisper of his breath against my forehead, the pulse of his orgasm deep inside me.

I knew his taste.

Setting the empty glass down, I admitted the truth.

I’d never forgotten him. I wasn’t over him. And I wanted to taste him again.

   
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