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PJ blushed and I gave the waitress my order. “No. I’ll have the same. Eggs scrambled. Buttermilk pancakes and white toast.”
When the waitress left the table, PJ whispered, “I’m so embarrassed, but it seems like all I’ve eaten lately is junk food. Not that what I ordered is what I’d call healthy, but it was the first thing that came to mind.”
“I’ll make sure to feed you better today.” Since she was supposed to go shopping with Lizzy again this morning, I knew PJ’s lunch was sure to be something sugary. “We’re having chicken tonight. Or at least that is what the ladies said yesterday. Also something about vegetables. Guess they are feeling the same way you are.”
“It’s amazing how quickly you can miss home cooking,” PJ said.
I chuckled. “Not if you were eating my food. I can’t remember the last time I even turned on my stove. Now, the microwave, that is something I know how to use.”
“That’s not cooking. That’s reheating,” she said.
I smiled. “Yup, but it’s never sent me to the hospital with food poisoning.”
Her jaw dropped and said, “You didn’t.”
“No. But it was almost that bad. That was enough for me. Now I eat out or have it delivered.”
“That’s so sad. I’d think that with such a large family, they would be cooking for you all the time.”
“They have their hands full with my brothers,” I said, honestly.
“Well, if you ever make it down to Florida, I’ll cook for you,” she said. “What’s your favorite food?”
I had no intention of seeing her again after New Hampshire, yet here I was thinking about what I’d want her to make for me. “Breakfast.” Served in bed.
I didn’t care if it was coffee, eggs, or just a glass of milk. If we were in bed, food wouldn’t be on the list of what I hungered for.
PJ grinned. “Just don’t expect your breakfast to be anything like what we just ordered. Most likely you’ll be eating a muffin.”
The innuendo rang in my ear. It was a slang word I never used, and obviously PJ hadn’t caught the double meaning of her sentence.
Or are you purposely trying to tempt me to go to Florida? Because it’s working.
If I hadn’t been sexually frustrated before, I sure as hell was now. Camping with family didn’t provide the privacy needed in order to relieve my aching cock either. Each day it was getting harder, literally.
Fuck.
The waitress brought over our food and asked, “Is there anything else I can get you?”
A room with a bed.
“I’ll call you over if we do,” I said, more sharply than I intended.
PJ looked at me in surprise.
I gulped. “Sorry. I guess the lack of…substance isn’t helping my disposition.”
Glad she can’t tell what I’m really thinking.
Nodding, she picked up her fork and started eating, letting my curt tone slide but I knew she had made a mental note of it. It was a part of me, one that I usually only used in business. I’d be sure to leave the waitress a large tip to make up for it.
I ate but didn’t even taste the food. All I could do was watch as she brought a piece of the syrup-soaked French toast to her lips. My gut twisted in a knot as a drip of the syrup lingered on the corner of her mouth before she removed it with her tongue.
Just kill me now, because this is fucking torture.
I couldn’t recall the last time my cock got so hard, that it was almost uncomfortable to sit. I adjusted my position, but it wasn’t helping. I found just about everything about PJ, sexy as hell.
PJ finished about half of her food, and said, “I can’t eat another bite. I can eat more than this, but I have other things on my mind.
