I want to get to know him more. I never want to lose this feeling.
I take a bite of chocolate chip pancake and cover my mouth to stifle my moan.
“Good?” He chuckles, clearly amused.
“This is the best damn pancake I’ve ever had.”
“Maybe that’s how we should advertise them,” our waitress jokes, refilling my water glass.
I blush.
She winks and heads away.
“Besides surfing what do you like to do?”
He thinks for a moment, a tiny bit of blueberry clinging to his lip. I don’t tell him, because he looks adorable.
“I like to build things. Mostly, I just like to keep my hands busy. I get restless if I’m not doing anything.”
“What kind of things do you build?”
“Last summer I helped my dad redo the deck to our house. And I built a tree house for our neighbors. Usually it’s smaller stuff, like birdhouses and shelves, a bookcase. Stuff like that.”
“I always wanted a tree house growing up,” I say wistfully.
He gets this look in his eyes. “I can build you one.”
“You’re not serious. We don’t have a tree you could even build one in.”
“We do.”
“You would build a tree house for me at your parents?” I raise a brow.
“Why not? They wouldn’t care. They’re cool. I always wanted one too growing up. So did T.J. It could be for the three of us.”
“Well, if you’re serious, that’d be amazing but I want to help.”
He smiles. “I’d like that.”
My stomach flips. It seems to do that constantly around Jasper.
I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to the feeling. I’m not sure I want to.
We finish our meal, making small talk.
The more I get to know him the more I like him. He’s easy to talk to, nice, and he makes me feel like me. Not the old me, or even the new me, but a version of me who’s happy and strong and excited about living.
He drops me off and kisses me on the cheek.
My cheek tingles all the way into the house and up to my room, and when I wake up there’s still a pleasant warmth.
I sleep in, my night excursion having worn me out. The smile won’t wipe off my face. I feel giddy, something I never feel.
When I get downstairs my parents are already gone for work and Harlow lies on the couch, the TV on for background noise, with her nose buried in her summer reading. It must not be very good because she wears a look of intense concentration and her lip is curled in distaste.
“Good morning,” I sing-song, dancing into the kitchen and doing a dip as I open the refrigerator door.
“Good dream?” she asks.