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“Relax. I love a good burger. I was just hoping they had fries, too.”
He nods. “It wouldn’t qualify as the best burger place if they didn’t have excellent fries, too, at least in my book.”
“Okay, then. Let’s eat.”
* * *
A half hour later, we’ve devoured a burger apiece, and we’ve ordered a second plate of fries with ketchup and mustard.
“I’m still a little suspicious of this mustard thing,” he says, spearing a dollop of ketchup with a fry and popping it into his mouth. “Is that a childhood thing or something, liking that?”
“It’s a mustard thing, liking it. And it goes with everything, fortunately for me.”
He takes another fry, swipes it through the dish of yellow mustard, and studies it a moment before eating it. I watch him chew and try not to get distracted by the line of his jaw and the muscle in his cheek that I’ve never found so sexy on a man. I could watch him eat the entire plate of fries in some combination of food porn and cheek porn.
There are a few people sitting on barstools along the side of the place, which has a soda fountain and a sign advertising “the world’s best root beer floats,” but we’re the only ones in the area of tables near the dirt parking lot.
“What?” he asks, wiping his mouth on a napkin and leaning his chin on his fist. It feels intimate, sitting here at a table under a metal umbrella beside this roadside gem. Now that it’s dark out, the moon cuts a swath of pure white across the table, stars blinking to life above us. It feels intimate—romantic—and I tell myself to stop imagining things.
“Thank you for bringing me here.”
He gazes at me with his chin on his hand and says nothing at first. I almost think he didn’t hear me because it seems like he’s not planning to do anything except stare at me. His gaze trails over my face as if he’s memorizing the shape of my nose or the curve of my cheek before flitting to my mouth and back to my eyes. Almost like he can’t keep his gaze from wandering.
It’s not unnerving because I’m just as interested in staring at him. I take in his five o’clock shadow, the way his blue eyes pierce the air between us, his eyelashes, unfairly long and thick. Eyelids lazy when he blinks.
I feel the connection in the bottomless pools of blue but also in a place deep in my chest, a plum line running straight to my core, lighting me up.
It should feel weird to lock eyes for so long, but it doesn’t. I almost feel like I’m being given a gift, being allowed to drown in the sight of him.
His eyes search my face, and for the briefest moment, I think he’s going to lean in and kiss me.
He clears his throat and takes a sip of his drink, breaking eye contact. Then I remember how exhausted he is. Clearly, I was imagining the moment as more than it was.
“You’re welcome.” It comes so long afterward that I almost forget what he’s referring to, but then I remember that I’d thanked him for bringing me.
“So, tell me about Fiona’s schedule. What does she need each day, and how else can I help?”
He doesn’t answer. I know he heard me because his shoulders have crept up another inch, and that doesn’t make sense. She’s the opposite of the job he seems to dislike.
“Jackson…”
“What?” He stays focused on the plate of fries.
“Anything else I should know about Fiona? How can I help you out? That’s what I’m here for, so take advantage of me.”
His mouth twitches at my unintentional innuendo, but he doesn’t look at me.
“Hey.” I tap his hand, which rests on the table. After a few taps, I leave my finger there, and he looks down at it before meeting my eyes. “What’s up? Why’d you need to hit the open road? Is it the financial stuff? Is there anything I can do?”
His eyelids drop, and I get ready for another stony silence. But when he looks at me, he’s focused. I notice an untouchable emotion veiled there.
“You’re the first person to ask me that.”
“Ask you what?”
“What I need.”
Nodding, I feel a pang of sadness at what he’s telling me—that he’s always doing what he should, doing what he needs to do. But no one asks him what they can do to ease his worries and his burdens.
