One Day After Never (The Second Time's the Charm Book 1) by Whitney Walker

Author:Whitney Walker [Walker, Whitney]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Serendipity Stories
Published: 2019-11-03T05:00:00+00:00

Exiting the tower formerly known as Sears, I am excited to introduce Peyton to another first. “I have something special in mind to do for lunch. I hope you are hungry.”

“Something in mind to do? Perhaps you meant to say, someone?” She points to her chest with her thumb. “Are you propositioning me, J.T. Walker? Because I am not sure that I am in any position to refuse your chivalrous offer! And yes, I am hungry.”

My head tilts back with laughter. “You have an uncanny ability to turn the simplest of statements into sexual banter of the best variety, Peyton Jennings! I love it!”

“Well, thank you, I think? You do seem to have that effect on me. So, was that a proposition or not?”

She looks like she is working to keep a straight face.

Not to leave her feeling rejected, I say, “I am anxiously awaiting our next time, but we may have already given the city enough of a show for one weekend yesterday.”

“Well, okay then. Don’t say that I didn’t offer to take you up on your offer.”

She is funny. I will give her that. “How about a consolation prize?” I ask, stopping at the street corner, though the white light of a man walking is illuminated in our direction. In a dramatic motion, I circle her waist and pick her feet up off the ground and twirl her around like no rush of a crowd is around to see. Holding her in the air, I find her lips with mine, warmth against the chill in the air. I love feeling her tongue in my mouth. I love the way our lips move against one another filling the space the others have just been occupying.

My head feels like the snowflakes being tossed about in the wind around us. I know our time together will end soon, and then what? I force myself to stay in the present. I don’t want to miss a second of our time together.

“I thought lunch was going to be my consolation prize, but yeah, I guess that kiss will do too!” she concedes, nose wrinkling cutely, with a bright white-toothed smile.

Moments later, I am opening the door to a small storefront with stained wainscoting covering the perimeter of the lower walls while old-fashioned to modern pizza images decorate the walls above. Red-and-white checkered tablecloths are adorned by mason jars filled with parmesan cheese and hot peppers. Green glass bottles painted with little white flowers on a light green vine hold oil and vinegar alongside the other accoutrements.

Welcoming scents of garlic and tomato waft through the air. Accented voices float across the room as Italian servers carry small, medium and large circular trays to tables, announcing their delivery. It’s classic Chicago.

We take seats, next to each other, in a red vinyl booth. “Can I safely presume our famous Chicago style ‘za is another first?”

“Safe presumption. And I can’t wait.”

“Deep dish or thin?”

“Yes. You know I am going to eat it all and I shouldn’t. Have you seen you naked? I can’t compete as it is!”

“That’s seriously funny.

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