But he’s calm and relaxed as he fires up the engine and backs out of the spot. At the exit for the parking lot, he reaches over and rests his hand on my leg. “Which way, sweetheart?”
“Oh, turn right.” I breathe out a sigh of relief and relax. “Another right at the third stoplight.”
“How was your day?” His mouth quirks. “After I ambushed you.”
His teasing tone further relaxes me and my own lips curve. “Not bad. Yours?”
“Started my new job.” He laughs softly. “Sort of. Got the smackdown from my parole officer.”
“What do you mean? Why?”
“Nothing much. Just the stay out of trouble, no robbing banks or running wild after curfew lecture.” He flashes a tight smile.
The reminder that he’s on parole sobers me up. I appreciate his honesty, though. “How long will you have to deal with that?”
“About a year. If they don’t toss me back inside for some reason.”
“Oh.” I’m not sure how else to respond. “That must be very stressful.”
He shrugs, almost like he wishes he hadn’t brought it up. “Sucks, because I’m not supposed to be around the club.” His hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Parole doesn’t care that they’re the only family I have.”
“I’d never…I wouldn’t tell anyone.”
He glances over. “I didn’t think you would.”
“That seems like a silly rule, anyway. Don’t you need a lot of…support once you get out? You know, to avoid going back in?”
He chuckles. “You would think so. But the revolving door keeps the money coming, you know?”
“Sure. So, where is your job?”
“Strike Back Studio. It’s a gym out near—”
“Johnsonville. I know the place. The owner offers self-defense classes at a reduced rate.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Someone bothering you?”
I stare out the window. “A girl living on her own can never be too careful.”
He grunts in acknowledgment but doesn’t say anything. He flips on the blinker and guides the truck onto the narrow, one-way street.
I point out the windshield. “It’s ahead on the right. They have a parking lot but it’s tiny.”
“Got it.”
We’re lucky and someone’s pulling out of a spot a few doors down from the cafe so there’s no need to venture into the parking lot.
After shutting off the truck, he turns to me. “Wait there.”
A few seconds later, he opens my door and holds out his hand. “Watch the ice,” he says.
My heart’s melting into a puddle at his concern. The sidewalk’s slippery and he grips my hand securely, navigating the icy pavement ahead of me. At the restaurant, he holds the door open and motions for me to go ahead.
The hostess shows us to a small table right inside the door.
“Do you have anything in the back?” Grayson asks, gesturing to a corner table.
“Sure,” she answers, whirling around and marching away. We follow and Grayson pulls out one of the chairs for me and takes the seat tucked in the corner where he has a full view of the room.
The tables are packed with men and women in business suits. Loud laughter and conversation rings out over the clatter of pots and pans coming from the swinging kitchen doors. Every few seconds, Grayson stops studying the menu and scans the other tables.
“Sorry, I didn’t think it’d be so noisy on a weeknight,” I say, hating that he seems so uncomfortable.
“The noise doesn’t bother me,” he answers in a gruffer tone than usual.
His hot-and-cold attitude leaves me fidgety and unsure. One minute, he’s gently guiding me over the icy sidewalk; the next, he looks ready to run.
I study my menu, seeing but not comprehending the words on the page. Deep breath. Focus.
“I haven’t seen this much avocado on a menu since the Eighties,” Grayson mutters.
I chuckle. “I think it’s made a big comeback.”
His mouth quirks.
“Now that you said it, I kind of want to try the avocado fries.”
This time I get a chuckle out of him. “Order whatever you want.”
“What can I get you to drink?” our waitress asks, startling me out of my review of the menu.
“Sparkling water with a slice of lemon,” I answer.
Grayson asks for the same. Interesting. I thought for sure he’d order beer.
“We’re ready to order too,” he says, raising an eyebrow at me to confirm, and I nod as the waitress turns to me.
“Ah…” I scan the menu again quickly. “The avocado fries and the Muther Clucker Chicken Sandwich.”
“The Kentucky Bourbon Burger.” Grayson hands our menus to our waitress. “Thank you.”
When we’re alone again, he slides his hands over the table and rests them on my side. Warm and rough, his big hands completely engulf mine. “Are you sure you didn’t want anything to drink? Wine or something, I mean.”
“I’m not much of a drinker.”
He nods. I can’t tell if he has any thoughts or feelings on the subject or if it’s just another piece of information about me he’s collecting.