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“I’m glad we get to do this.”
“We have a lot of stuff to talk about.” I grab a fresh pad of paper and slap it on the table. “Where do you want to start?”
My butt is halfway to a chair when Max points to the door. “I’m hungry. Are you hungry? I can’t discuss the big life stuff without sustenance.”
My three pieces of turkey jerky and a granola bar wasn’t enough for lunch, but my nerves were shot. Now that he’s here and it’s normal, my stomach is calm enough to accept a full meal.
I ache to spend time with him.
“Sure. What did you have in mind?”
“There’s a diner I saw…”
“Moe’s? We love Moe’s.”
“Or I think there’s a café or something?”
“Betty’s Café. That’s risky.”
“How so?”
“That’s where the gossips hang out. However, they’re more of a lunch crowd.”
“Let them talk.” Max offers his arm, like he’s a prince. I laugh as I rest my hand on his arm. He pulls me to him, covering my hand with his. I’m not sure if he feels the electrical charge I feel as we press our sides together, walking to the door.
When we arrive, a quick scan of the restaurant tells me we’re good. None of Miriam’s bad biddies are there in the corner. Carly, a teenager I’ve seen around here or there, is at the hostess stand, but her parents keep to themselves. We’re as safe here as I anticipate anywhere else.
“Do you see any of the gossipers?” Max asks, leaning in. God, he smells good. Why is he standing so close?
“No, thankfully,” I say. Max pulls my chair out and pushes me in. His fingers brush against my bare skin as he walks to his chair, unaware that he just made my whole body shiver.
He opens the plastic flap of the menu. “What’s good here?”
“I like their soup and salad. Or they do a half sandwich too.”
“Isn’t it too hot for soup?”
The air quivers outside against the blacktop of the road, but soup is one of my big love languages. “I love soup. Soup is welcome year-round.”
“Fair enough.” He closes the menu and leans forward. “Did we come here that one time?”
I shake my head. “No, we just went to La Scarola the last night. The place we went where I told you…”
“Oh yes, that’s right.” He reopens the menu and continues to peruse. He stares at his menu. “It’s been bothering me, so I have to ask. Did you ever get my emails?”
“Emails?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says, his eyes still glued to the menu. “I sent you an email almost daily when I was in Costa Rica.”
My face melts. “You did?”
He looks up, nodding. “Did you get them?”
I shake my head, biting my lip.
He looks down at the table. “That explains a lot.”
“Yeah,” I say. His forlorn expression makes my heart drop. “What did they say?”
