Not cute. It’s just a line.
“Where are we going?”
“I’m hungry.”
Payton still doesn’t get up.
I step closer and glare down at her.
“Well, maybe I’m not,” she states, crossing her arms over her chest.
“I didn’t ask.”
When she still doesn’t move, I let out a sigh.
“Are you hungry?” I begrudgingly ask.
“I can eat.”
Before I can think better of it, I’m reaching out my hand, offering it to her to help her up. If it weren’t for everything between us, I would swear I feel a spark when we touch.
Once we’re in the car and out of the lot, I weave my way in and out of traffic. When I pull to a stop, it’s in front of my favorite hole-in-the-wall diner. I finish parking my car outside.
“This place looks nice,” she says with a laugh, taking in the dilapidated front of the building.
The awning is hanging on by a thread, and the name of the restaurant has been worn off by time. Three of the letters don’t even light up anymore. The vowels, too, which I hear are important.
“Trust me when I tell you, it’s the best food you’ll ever eat.”
“Oh . . . I believe it.” She unbuckles her seat belt, reaching for the door. “It’s always the places like this that are the best.”
“Agree.”
“Can never judge a book by its cover, right?”
I turn to look at her, and I see how she looks back at me. Probably insinuating that I’m an asshole, even though I probably look like a nice guy.
She’s not wrong.
Or maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe she thinks she sees something more in me, even though I look like an asshole. Who knows with her?
But I don’t care, so I’m not gonna ask.
I get out of the car, and she follows suit. This is not the kind of establishment in which you wait for a hostess. You just take a seat. So, I lead us to an empty booth in the corner.
Normally, when I come here, I know everyone who works in this place, but tonight, I don’t recognize anybody. That’s when I spot Tanya, one of my favorite servers. She waves over to me and comes to greet me.
“Are you having your usual?” She beams at me.
“Yes. What about you, Payton? Do you need to see a menu?”
“What’s your usual?” she asks me.
“At this time of night . . . pancakes.”
Payton’s lips spread into a large smile. One I have never seen on her. Probably because I am the asshole who never gives her a reason to do it.
“Pancakes for dinner . . . I like it.” She turns to Tanya. “I’ll have the same. Can I add extra-crispy bacon?”
“Who doesn’t love a woman who orders bacon?”
Fuck me. I did not just say that out loud.
Tanya walks away, leaving Payton and me to sit in silence.
“How long have you been volunteering?” She breaks the still air with her question.
“A few years.”
“Can you elaborate?”
“Nope.”
Mature.
Her brows furrow. “Can you ever just answer a question honestly?”
“No.”
I could, but this is more fun. Like I said . . . mature.
Payton leans forward, her elbows now resting on the table. She places her chin in her hands. “Is there a reason for that?”
She’s analyzing me. Trying to understand what makes me tick.
If only it were that easy.
I’m all types of fucked up. Ain’t that right, big guy?
My head tips up to the sky as if he can hear me better at this angle.
“Yes,” I finally say.
“Are you going to tell me said reason?” she presses, pulling out a packet of brown sugar from a sticky white box, emptying it on the table, and playing with the mess.
Lowering my gaze, I meet her stare. “Negative, Ghostrider.”
“You’re intolerable.” She grins, and I love the way it looks on her.
“Absolutely.”
She looks frustrated from across the table, but that last smirk is still there, and I can’t help but enjoy it. I love messing with her. I love getting a rise out of her. I’m surprised when she continues to fire off questions. She’s not surprised when I continue to vaguely answer.
Until the food gets there.
Then I’m rewarded with a soft moan that falls from her lips.
Just that one little squeak, and my cock stirs to life.
Watching her eat pancakes is turning me on.
Who the fuck am I?
I don’t say a word further. I can’t be thinking this kind of shit. I don’t even trust myself to speak. Not with my little comment earlier.
I eat my pancakes; she eats hers.
That’s when I see him making his approach. He’s by the front door. He must have followed us.
Paul.
I don’t know what he wants, but I don’t think it’s a coincidence that I’m eating dinner at a low-traffic, obscure, hole-in-the-wall dive that he happens to be walking into.
Pretty calculated.
If I were by myself, I would approach him, but I don’t know what he wants, and my gut tells me, at this time of night, whatever it is, it’s nothing good.