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And that’s what I expect . . . right up until the moment he walks over to the bar and sits down. Right in front of me.
Oh, I might be in trouble here.
Olivia is dancing around behind Bobby, eyes huge and mouth silently screaming ‘yessss!’ and ‘get him, girl!’ while she does some version of a pelvic thrust I think is supposed to be sexy but mostly just looks like she’s humping empty air.
I drag my eyes back to Bobby, who’s smirking like he can guess exactly what I’m looking at behind him and gives zero fucks. “Hey, Willow.”
Grit and gravel, no honey to smooth the roughness of his voice. I swear it vibrates through my skin and muscles and straight to my core.
“Hey, Bobby.” See? Playing it cool here. No big deal. Just another customer, like any other. “What can I get ya? Jack? Or is it a beer night?”
“Sweet tea, please.”
Hmm, unexpected and interesting.
I set a glass in front of him, watching as he fishes out the lemon wedge and squeezes it into the drink. “Dinner?” I ask, holding a menu between us like a shield. “Or are you waiting on someone?”
I lick my lips, wishing I could chase those words back and swallow them down. Why did I ask that? It makes me sound needy, like one of his groupies. Which I’m not. Nope, not a bit.
“Yep. What time’s your dinner break?” he drawls out slowly. But it’s not casual. If anything, the speed makes his intention clearer.
Me? Me. He really is here for me. He’s dressed up like walking sex for me. The very idea is almost laughable.
“Oh, I don’t really get one. I’ll grab something later.” That’s the truth, but also, I’m trying to put some distance between us. I’m not sure what to do with him, with this intensity, with this directness.
I wipe down the spotless bar aimlessly, quiet and waiting. He came here for a reason and will spill eventually. I can be patient.
He watches me again, eyes tracking me closely. After a solid five minutes of silence, which feels like an eternity, he looks over his shoulder. “Hey, Olivia?”
She’s been watching from a booth with some folks she must know because she’s sitting down with them, all four sets of their eyes on Bobby and me too. “Yeah?”
“Can I get two of whatever Ilene thinks Willow would like to eat for dinner, please?” He talks to Olivia but is looking at me again, daring me to disagree. When I’m quiet, he smiles ever so slightly, the smallest lift of the corners of his mouth. Victory. I can see it in his eyes. But he balances it with his words. “If you want to take it to-go for later, that’s fine. But I thought it’d be nice to have dinner together and didn’t figure you’d go out with me after I crashed and burned last night.”
Bold self-deprecation? I hadn’t expected that from the cocky cowboy either.
“So you thought a captive audience while I’m at work was the better option?” He cringes, despite the decided lack of heat in the accusation.
He sighs heavily. “Look, I’m really bad at this, but I’m trying. I’m trying to get to know you. I’m just not that great with words.”
I scan his face, his jaw set tight as though those were the hardest words he’s ever said. I believe him. I heard him express himself beautifully and confidently on stage last night, but he seems more real, more vulnerable now than the larger than life version he was then.
Olivia sets down two blue-plate specials, Ilene’s brown butter seasoned chicken breast, homemade mashed potatoes, and fried okra. She disappears as quickly, and the aroma wafts up, making my stomach growl. Bobby smiles hopefully. And I give in, knowing it’s an unwise decision, but it’s only dinner across the bar. How bad could it be?
I unwrap the silverware, watching as he mirrors my movements. First up? A bite of mashed potatoes, full of peppery goodness and covered in brown gravy. “Mmm,” I moan reflexively. Ilene can really cook, and if I keep eating every dinner here, I’m going to be the size of a house because she has never met a stick of butter she didn’t turn into something delicious.
Bobby freezes, his bite of mashed potatoes halfway to his mouth, and mutters under his breath. I swear he says, “Is she trying to kill me?”
I have no idea what he’s talking about, but I dig in. Now that I’ve got food in front of me, I’m starving. I’m several bites in when I remember that I didn’t take a picture. Food pics are one my most popular posts and an easy capture with a variety of texture, colors, and shapes. But I’ll have to do something different tonight. I’ll see what strikes me on the way home—maybe a moon shot or my freshly painted toes in the tub because I promised myself a long, hot soak days ago.
