Tell Me Again by Becca Neil EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Authors: Becca Neil
- Language: English
- Genre: contemporary romance
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 5.8 MB
- Price: Free
Coop
IT HAD STARTED OUT as a light brush of his lips on mine. Just a brief
touch. And he’d been the one to initiate it. Curious, he’d said, just to see
what it would feel like.
Then, he’d come back in for a second kiss, this one a little longer.
And his hand had come around to my back, settling low, as his tongue had
run along my lower lip and then darted into my mouth.
Peaches. And honey. He’d tasted like peaches and honey.
And to this day, I can’t stand either of those foods. Which fucking
sucks because Mel makes the best peach cobbler. Or so I’m told.
I’m staring at a slice of it now, in fact, trying not to gag. And I’m also
trying not to shake too badly. I glance around the corner, listening to the
familiar sounds of clinking silverware and hushed voices from the dining
room as my eyes land on table thirteen. Lucky number thirteen.
Fuck.
What the fuck is he doing here? And why the fuck did Jan have to
seat him in my section?
“Coop, what the hell, man? Table twelve is waiting. And table
thirteen. And table six. You just gonna stand there all night?” Chuck scowls
and brushes past me on his way back into the kitchen.
Maybe I will stand here all night. That sounds better than whatever
the fuck I might do if I have to face him again. Although maybe he won’t
even recognize me. The thought is ludicrous, of course, seeing as I’d
recognized him from all the way across the restaurant, even after ten years.
God, has it really been ten years?
Physically, I’ve probably changed a little more than he looks like he
has. I grew taller. A lot. And I filled out. Mel says I look like I’m going to
audition for a superhero movie. How did she put it? “Fucking ripped like
Thor.” Right. Thanks Mel. My hair is a little longer—messy dark-brown
curls that I hide under an old baseball cap most of the time—and depending
on the day of the week, I’ve usually got some sort of facial hair thing going
on. I definitely didn’t have that at fifteen.
“Fuck,” I mutter out loud this time, and I pull my cap down low over
my forehead. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“Coop! Table twelve!”
Keeping my head low, I duck out from behind the corner and weave
my way through the dining room. It’s busy, as it always is on Friday night,
and my section is full. I try not to let my eyes drag up from the floor as I
walk right past table thirteen and stop at the next table, where two
customers sit.
The woman, who’s had a permanent scowl on her face pretty
much the whole time they’ve been here, scoffs as I set down the cobbler in
the middle of the table with some vague apology about it taking so long,
and the man, who absolutely reeks of alcohol, like he’d been swimming in
the stuff before they even came in, lifts his beer bottle.
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