Supercross Me (Motocross Me 2)

At the café, our waitress looks about a hundred years old, but she has the personality of a cheerleader. Her baby blue waitress uniform is complete with an apron and a sparkly brooch she keeps pinned by her nametag. Luckily, she doesn’t ask any awkward questions about us, and she doesn’t stay around to chat. The last thing I want is to field questions about whether or not Lincoln and I are dating to some old woman.

I order French toast and bacon, and the food is to die for. It’s probably even better than Molly’s French toast, but I’ll never tell her that. Lincoln tells me about growing up in Mixon and how he’s known all of the same people for his entire life.

“Homeschooling sounds awesome, but I probably would have died of boredom if I didn’t get to go to school.”

“It did get a little lonely,” I say, recalling my days of teaching myself with second-hand textbooks and the internet. “But I always assumed I was doing it the best possible way, learning on my own time without worrying about waking up early or dealing with teachers or bullies.”

He nods and pours more honey on top of his pancakes. “Did you play any sports as a kid?”

“Not really,” I say, shaking my head.

“Just motocross?”

“Nope.” I take a sip of orange juice. “My dad always did motocross here, but I didn’t see him a lot when I was little, and when I did, I thought dirt bikes were soooo boring.”

His eyes widen. “Seriously? Do you know how many parents won’t let their kids ride a dirt bike at all, and yet your dad owns a track? You were so freaking lucky.”

I shrug. “I’ve never ridden a dirt bike. So all I ever did was sit around the track and sweat my butt off, wishing I was home in the air conditioning.”

“That’s weird,” he says, brows narrowing. “Mr. Fisher lets Teig ride. Why didn’t he let you? And don’t give me any of that girls are breakable nonsense.”

I shake my head. “Dad has always wanted me to ride, but my mom wouldn’t let me. She pretty much swore he’d never see me again if he ever let me get on a bike. So he didn’t.”

> Lincoln looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t, choosing to look down at his pancakes instead. “Well if you ever want a dirt bike lesson, now that you’re officially a legal adult and all, I’d be happy to teach you.”

My heart clenches. Ash used to say the same thing. I nod, staring at my food. “I’ll keep that in mind, thanks.”

My phone buzzes from inside of my purse, but I ignore it. With permission or not, it’s still rude to be on the phone when you’re on a date. Lincoln starts telling me about the first dirt bike he ever had, a hand-me-down from his older cousin, and my phone vibrates again, longer, like a phone call. I reach my hand into the purse and press a side button to stop the call.

“You can get that if you want,” he says.

I shake my head. “I’m not going to be rude on our brunch date.”

He leans forward, dipping his eyes to meet mine. “How many dates do I get this special treatment?”

I tilt my head, pretending to consider it. “As many dates as I still find you interesting.”

“Challenge accepted.”

Our waitress appears, paper check in hand. “I’ll just take care of this whenever you two are ready,” she says, setting it in the empty space between our plates. “No rush though. We aren’t exactly busy,” she says with a laugh as she looks around the nearly empty diner.

Lincoln takes the check and my mouth opens. I should offer to pay for my part or half of it or something.

He shakes his head as if he’s some kind of mind reader. “I’m paying for this, don’t even try to argue.”

When our eyes meet, he winks at me. “I’m staying interesting. Plus, I’m a southern gentleman.”

I roll my eyes. “I’ll pay for the next one then.”

“Never. It’s my pleasure to spend time with you.”

My phone buzzes again before I can think of a witty reply. Lincoln looks toward my purse, which is hanging on the back of my chair. “You should probably get that. It might be an emergency.”

I groan. “Okay fine, but only as we’re walking to the car.”

He leads the way toward the parking lot, holding open the diner’s door for me as I root around in my purse and find my cell phone. It’s only Shelby calling, and I’m relieved that Dad hasn’t decided to call and bitch at me for Lincoln and me being late to work. By the time I find the phone, the call has gone to voicemail. I go to call her back, but she calls me again immediately.

“You okay?” I ask instead of a hello.