Total pages in book: 22
Estimated words: 20216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 101(@200wpm)___ 81(@250wpm)___ 67(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 20216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 101(@200wpm)___ 81(@250wpm)___ 67(@300wpm)
I peel out of the parking lot, fast and clean, and I don’t miss the way his hand instantly grabs the oh-shit bar above the window. Knuckles white, forearm bulging. I pretend not to notice, but the way he’s braced in the seat, muscles tight, tells me he’s not nearly as chill as he acts.
“You’re a confident driver,” he says, which is a polite way of saying I drive like I’m qualifying for the Indy 500.
“Hold on tight, Stafford.”
He glares, but there’s a flash of a grin. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”
The words hit in a way they shouldn’t. I take the next corner sharp, just to see what he’ll do. He laughs, hand gripping tighter, eyes locked on me.
I take the final turn into Lou’s Diner hard enough to make the tires squeal. Harrison lets out another laugh, louder this time, like it actually feels good to hang on for dear life. His hand is welded to the oh-shit bar. His body takes up all the oxygen in the car.
Oh, my word, he looks like a caged animal. Or a circus bear jammed into a Smart Car, but somehow hotter.
I kill the engine, letting the silence settle around us. He’s breathing faster, chest moving under that black henley, collar just a little damp where it hugs his neck. I don’t let myself notice his thighs spread to bracket the tiny glove box. I absolutely do not look at his hands.
I look at his hands.
“You gonna be able to get out of there, or do you need extraction?” I ask, keeping my voice flat, even though I’m inches from cracking up. Part of me wants to just watch him struggle. The rest of me wants to crawl over the console and see what happens if I straddle his lap.
He grins, all teeth, and lets go of the oh-shit bar. For one second, it looks like the cramped seat is actually winning. Then he unfolds himself, slow and dirty, dragging his body out the door like it’s a striptease and I’m the only audience.
“Not the first time I’ve had to squeeze out of a tight spot, Daisy.”
Fudgemuffin. The way he says my name, low and rough, does things to my hussy lady bits. “Good to know,” I call over my shoulder as I lead him to the front door of Lou’s Diner.
It isn’t much more than a little hole in the wall, but it’s got the best burgers in a fifty-mile radius. The bell above the glass door dings as we enter, hard enough to announce us to the whole room. Nobody bothers to look. Not the guy at the counter, hunched over his crossword puzzle. Not the two women in the corner booth with matching perms and matching attitudes. Not even the cook, visible through the pass, flipping something greasy on the flat-top.
“Seat yourselves,” the middle-aged waitress calls from behind the counter. I lead the way to a booth against the far wall. The red vinyl is cracked and duct-taped at the seams, more silver than scarlet these days. The Formica tabletop has been scrubbed down so many times the pattern is basically gone. There are napkin dispensers, salt and pepper, and a sugar shaker that’s probably older than me. Classic.
Harrison slides in, adjusting his knees so he doesn’t dislocate something. Here, he looks normal. Less like a headline, more like just a guy at lunch.
A minute later, the waitress materializes. Her gray hair is spun into a bun so tight it looks like it could stop a bullet. The name tag pinned crooked on her chest reads “Bev.” She slaps two laminated menus onto the table in front of us.
“Breakfast or lunch?” she asks, still not looking at us.
“Lunch,” I say, because I hate breakfast food no matter what time of day it is.
She turns the laminated menus over. “What can I get you to drink?”
“Coke Zero.” I don’t glance down at the menu. I already know what I want.
Harrison glances up. “Whatever’s on tap.”
She barely nods. “I’ll be back to get your orders.” Bev obviously doesn’t like to waste words.
I glance at Harrison across the table. “They have the best cheeseburgers.”
“Sounds great.” He slings his arm across the back of the booth.
Bev returns with our drinks and stares down at us with a raised eyebrow. Damn. She really doesn’t like to waste words.
“Two cheeseburgers, both with fries,” I order for both of us.
Bev grunts in approximate agreement and disappears into the void.
For a minute, there’s nothing to do but sip my Coke and listen to the ceiling fan threaten to launch itself into orbit.
I’m about to start in with empty small talk when Harrison beats me to it.
“You come here a lot?”
It’s a harmless question, but there’s an edge to it.
“Used to. When I was a kid, my dad would drag me in for lunch on the weekends. I always got fries and a cherry Coke, and he’d bullshit with Lou like they were old war buddies. After he retired, it became less of a thing.”