No Bad Days (Fisher Brothers 1)

I shoved at him. “All right, we’re going to get something to eat, and then I’ll be back. I think.” I glanced at Nick, not knowing what he had planned.

“She’ll be back later. Much later.” He smiled before moving to give Rachel a quick hug good-bye.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she shouted as we neared the door.

“That’s not very limiting, Rach,” I shouted back as I stepped outside.

When we pulled into the nearly full parking lot of a local Italian restaurant known for having the best pizza and pasta in town, Nick glanced at me. “You like Italian, yeah?”

I smiled. “What if I said no?”

“I think part of me might die. Jess, this place is the best.”

“I know it is. I love it here. The gnocchi.” I moaned like I was in heaven before kissing my fingertips and lifting them toward the sky.

“Don’t moan like that unless I’m underneath you. Or on top of you. Or kissing you. Or touching you,” he said, his gaze lingering on my mouth.

“I can’t help what good gnocchi does to me.” I licked my lips.

“You’re trying to kill me,” he said before hopping out of his truck.

When I turned to get out, he said, “Stay put,” so I stopped and waited as he opened my door and extended a hand to help me down.

Such a simple thing, but it meant a lot to me. Guys didn’t do that kind of thing anymore. Those small gestures mattered; they truly did.

We held hands as we entered through the red-and-white-checkered door, and once we were seated in a booth, it was as if no one else existed but the two of us. Nick had a way of making you feel like you were the most important person in the room. When his attention was focused on you, you felt invincible, larger than life, and important.

“I’m really sorry again about last night,” he said.

I cringed a little, wanting to forget the radio bit that I’d heard. “I know. God, I was so pissed.”

“I know.” He pointed at his cheek. “Aren’t you going to apologize for striking me?”

I laughed. “Striking you? No. You deserved it.”

His jaw fell open. “Deserved it?” He started to say something else, but then stopped and shrugged one shoulder. “You’re right.”

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” I smiled and leaned toward him, cupping my ear. “Could you repeat that, please?”

“You heard me the first time, woman.” He leaned away from me, his eyes narrowed playfully.

“No, I don’t think I did.”

“I said you were right,” he mumbled, looking toward the floor as I laughed.

The waiter greeted us, took our drink orders, and informed us of the specials that evening. Every word he spoke made me want to drool, but somehow I refrained. I loved food, and Italian was my weakness.

After dinner, Nick reached across the table to cup my cheek. My eyes closed automatically at his touch. I tilted my face against his fingers, loving the strength and warmth they brought.

“Let’s get out of here,” he whispered.

My eyes flew open. “Your place or mine?”

“Mine.”

His response was quick, too quick, which caused me to panic. Nick lived in a fraternity house, where anything any of them did quickly became public knowledge. I didn’t want whatever was about to happen to be something that a bunch of guys I didn’t know talked about behind my back.

“But you live at a frat house,” I said, trying to backpedal. “With like a hundred guys.”