He eats like he hasn’t had food in
days—leaning over the plate, shoveling eggs and toast and pancakes
into his mouth as he looks around the kitchen with wide eyes. Every
time those purple depths pass over me, flames of desire lick across
my groin. I’ve never seen eyes like his, ever, and I find
myself wondering what they look like first thing in the morning or
last thing at night. Without his hat, I see that his hair is short
and an almost mousy brown, bleached colorless at the top from long
days in the sun, but it’s getting shaggy near the back, curling
over his collar and around his earlobes. Luke. I like that name. As
he eats, I ask, “How old are you really?” When he looks up at me,
surprised, I grin. “Twenty? You’re joking.”
“In two months,” he says, indignant.
Swallowing
