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He perked up at that.
I could tell he was getting stir crazy.
“What about we go out to eat, get a good meal under my belt for tomorrow, and then I go back to your place and we can watch the race?” he asked hopefully.
I couldn’t stop the excited grin that filled my face. “Really?”
“Really,” he nodded. “Winston told me you have a bigger TV than me.”
I snorted. “I have a massive TV. But only because I don’t like wall décor, and with the TV, I don’t need any.”
“Solid answer.” He smiled. “Where do you want to go eat?”
I thought about it before saying, “I’d love Whataburger.”
“Whataburger.” He laughed. “Sure, let’s go.”
I grabbed my things, heading toward the door.
He came a bit slower but was on my heels with his long strides before I’d made it to the elevator.
We walked down not quite touching, but definitely closer than we’d ever been before.
My heartrate was through the roof that he didn’t want to be separated from me.
We arrived at the parking garage, and I asked, “I didn’t quite think about this before, but you’re okay to drive?”
He snorted. “I’m more than okay to drive.”
He got into the truck a lot slower than me, but we made it out of the parking garage and to the nearest Whataburger in under twenty minutes—a record for the godforsaken town we were in.
We got inside, and I started my order before him.
“I’d like a double cheeseburger, large fries, and a big ass Coke,” I said. “I’d also like another double cheeseburger, just the cheeseburger.”
The man behind me choked.
“Jesus, you eat like a man.”
An older black man who was filling his cup up at the drink fountain said, “You should marry her, son.”
I looked at the man to see Nash grinning at him. “Plan to, sir.”
I didn’t call him on his obvious lie.
Instead, I started ordering his food.
“Will that be all?” the woman taking the order asked.
“Yes,” I answered.
She gave me the total, and I swiped my card before Nash could figure out that we were through.
I totally guessed on his burger, too.
If he wanted to pretend like we were getting married, he could also pretend that he liked what I’d ordered him.
“Let’s go sit, fiancé.” I hooked my arm around his and tugged lightly.
He followed, a confused frown on his face.
“I didn’t order yet,” he said.
“I ordered for you,” I told him.
He sighed. “I don’t like onions.”
I nearly grinned.
“I didn’t put onions on your burger,” I lied.
I totally had them make it all the way.
He’d have some scraping to do.
“Did you order me onion rings?” he asked.
I stopped and looked at him. “You just literally said you don’t like onions.”
“I don’t,” he answered.
“Well, then what were you just talking about not liking onions for when we were talking about your burger?” I asked.
“I don’t really count onion rings as onions,” he said. “They’re covered in dough and fried.”
I didn’t call him on his obvious hypocrisy.
Instead, I chose the booth that was farthest away from the door and the rest of the restaurant and took a seat.
“I like to always sit on the left side.” He eyed me where I sat.
I rolled my eyes. “You’ll have to just get over it. When my ass is down, it’s down.”
He looked at my cup, which was empty. “Then how are you going to get a drink?”
I handed it to him.
“What do you want?” he snorted, picking up both massive cups.
He eyed the cup in his hand as he waited for me to reply.
“I’ll take whatever,” I answered.
“Whatever?” he questioned.
“Whatever,” I confirmed.
He left, walking slowly, but moving much better than he had at the beginning of the week.
When he came back, he had a lid on both drinks, then offered me the one that looked red.
“Fruit punch?” I wondered, breaking the straw free from the wrapper and shoving it into my drink.
I took a healthy swallow and paused.
“What is this?” I asked.
“Sprite and fruit punch,” he answered. “I used to get it all the time before I had to start watching my weight for work.”
“Why would you have to watch your weight?” I wondered.
I actually knew why.
But hearing him talk about his racing, and the prep work and engine stuff, really got my engine revving.
I’d discovered this over the course of the week, but especially when we were watching the highlights from qualifying yesterday.
“Because the more weight is in the car, the slower it goes,” he answered. “Basic physics, really.”
I wouldn’t know about basic physics. That was one class that I literally struggled to make a C in. And the only reason I’d done as well as that was because Simi had taken a few of my online tests for me in exchange for taking over one of her shifts.
“I guess that’s understandable,” I agreed.
He took a drink of his own drink, and I saw that it was much the same consistency as mine.
