Chapter 18: Strawberry Pancakes

I woke up to the smell of burning butter and the sound of a man swearing quietly at a hot plate.

Miles stood at the counter in his jeans and nothing else, holding a spatula.

Sun came through the window and lit the back of his shoulders.

There was a red mark on one of them, small and round.

I looked at it for a long moment and felt my whole face go warm.

"Don't look at that," he said, without turning around.

"I'm not looking."

"You're breathing very loudly in the direction of my back."

"You have a hickey."

"I have several," said Miles. "I've been counting. I'm proud of them."

I put the pillow over my face and laughed into it until my ribs hurt.

He brought me a plate when I came out.

The pancakes were lopsided, and one was black on the bottom.

Beside them sat a mound of strawberries from the corner stand.

"Where did you get those?" I said.

"I went out. You were asleep. I locked the door behind me and everything."

"You went out in your jeans."

"I put on a shirt for the stand," Miles said. "Then I took it off again when I got back, for dramatic effect."

"For what effect?"

"I'm told it works."

I took a bite of a pancake. It was good, a little salty, a little too thick.

"Pete's recipe?"

"Pete's recipe, my execution."

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