Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 134830 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134830 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Kyle takes it from me, hooking it over the handlebar with a little smirk that seems different from his earlier ones. “Yes, ma’am.”
He helps me off the bike, opens the diner door, and leads me into a small, brightly-lit restaurant that smells like heaven. And butter, which in my educated opinion is pretty much the same thing. I’d know, given how much of my life I spend in front of a stove, oven, and grill. Your abuela might say all good food starts with love, but she’s wrong. All good food starts with one thing… butter.
As we walk in, a waitress, who’s busy running two armfuls of plates to various tables, calls out, “Sit anywhere and I’ll be with you shortly.”
Kyle leads me to a booth, waits for me to sit, then sits across from me. It’s a little surprising. I wouldn’t have expected him to be this gentlemanly. But he’s definitely showing signs of it by helping with the helmet, holding open the door, and now, handing me the menu. It’s a teeny-tiny tally mark in the good column, but it does little to balance out all the anger-filled tallies on the bad side.
“They have a bunch of options, but my favorite is the Elvis version,” Kyle says conversationally. “I know it sounds disgusting—peanut butter, banana, and honey—but it’s so good. Damn near orgasmic.”
He says it casually, but my body reacts like he promised more than carby goodness. “Fine,” I reply as if I’m not already starting to drool. And I’m not talking about in my mouth. “But if they suck, I’m blaming you.”
I’ve been called bitchy before. Too many times to count, actually. Usually, I chalk it up to guys who expect me to be subservient, which I’m not. At all. But I’ve never felt bitchy until right now, as the words leave my mouth with a lot more acid on them than they should.
I’m not fighting for survival here. I’m being flat-out rude.
Kyle’s brought me to a place he enjoys, recommended a favorite, which does actually sound delicious, so of course I respond by snapping back with a snide, hateful response when my body’s reaction to his voice isn’t his fault.
Kyle doesn’t react… mostly, but I can see a little tic in his cheek as my cut hits.
“Sorry,” I mutter, closing my eyes. “I feel like shit. I don’t drink much, hardly ever, so I overdid it last night and I’m taking my bad mood out on you.”
“It’s okay,” he answers, forgiving me easily. “You’ll feel better after you eat.”
He doesn’t mention the multiple other times this week, all of which had nothing to do with alcohol, where I was bitchy when dealing with him. It’s like those have all but been forgotten by him. At least for the moment.
When the waitress comes, he orders for us both. “Two Elvises, a glass of milk, a green tea with milk and sugar, and two waters. And a double side of bacon.” When the waitress rushes off to put our order in, he tells me, “You need water to stay hydrated, but the caffeine in the green tea will help with the headache. The bacon’s a personal fave, but if you want some, go right ahead.”
Normally, I’d bristle at being told what to do, especially since I’ve never had green tea like that, but arguing further at this point seems like overkill. And giving me permission to take some bacon? Definite points in his favor.
Maybe I should just keep my mouth closed until the pancakes get here? That’s probably a smart move or Kyle might leave me with the bill and no ride home. Hell, that might be his diabolical plan, anyway.
But it doesn’t seem like that’s the case. He’s relaxed, an arm stretched out along the back of the booth like he’s right at home in the out of the way, mom and pop diner, and he’s peering at me like we’re old friends, not new enemies.
“If you don’t usually drink, what made last night different?”
He knows. Of course, he does. The plan was to make his life as inconvenient as he’s made mine, and it worked… mostly. But in order to be too drunk to move Nessa’s car, we got started with the sauce way too early and then just kept going.
“Nessa,” I explain, taking a deep breath. “She takes care of her mom, and a night off for her is a rare occasion worthy of celebrating. So, we pulled out the hard stuff after a hard week for us both.” It’s the truth, just not all the truth.
He nods like he’s mulling that information over. "She must love her mom a lot to take care of her like that.” Of all the comments he can make, snarky or not, he sounds sincere, and he might even be complimenting Nessa some. It’s off-balancing.