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“Still don’t follow.”
“He suddenly decides to make a hot meal – a hot meal with enough for at least three people – instead of just stuffin’ his face with cold cardboard, and you really can’t follow the track I’ve lined with bright orange cones?”
His snark successfully drops my jaw, which seems to be what he wanted considering how wide he’s now grinning.
“When’s the last time you had a home-cooked meal?”
I don’t answer.
“When’s the last time you had more than a Kit Kat bar?”
Alluding to my earlier comment causes me to smirk against my own volition.
“Why don’t you do us both a favor and eat it while it’s still hot?” Kipp suggests with a little less room for an argument. “You don’t deserve cold food, and I don’t wanna have to haul my ass back upstairs to microwave it again.”
Ignoring the hunger pains in my stomach grows impossible when he tips the plate forward just enough to see the butter dollops sliding around the white mountain of mashed awesomeness.
I don’t even remember the last time I had a home-cooked meal that I didn’t have to make let alone one that couldn’t be made in fifteen minutes or less for fear of being watched through the cracks of the blocked windows.
And freshly mashed potatoes? Hell, I know I haven’t had those since my parents died almost four years ago. Mom would make them for Thanksgiving because they were my favorite. She would then turn around and make Dad whipped sweet potatoes because they were his. The ironic shit about all of that was the fact she herself did not eat potatoes.
Not even in chip form.
“Fork? I question at the same time I unlock the vehicle for him. “Or is that gonna cost me extra?”
Kipp opens the door and presents the plate along with the utensil. “Just your keys.”
Digging them out from my bag is an easy task as is taking the plastic wrapped dish I’m practically salivating to devour.
What can I say?
It was a long drive from the Florida Georgia border to Texas and the desperation to wrack up the most number of miles I possibly could before he theoretically caught wind of my escape was the only thing on my mind.
Not sleep.
Not food.
Not even gas, which may be all my damn car needs with my luck.
Rather than shut the door behind him, my mechanic leaves it wide open, although I’m not sure if that’s his attempt at opening a channel of communication or hearing me better or hoping I step out to join him.
Sucks if it’s the latter because that shit’s not happening.
Getting close to people isn’t really my thing.
Especially physically.
And getting to eat without having to look over my shoulder is an even rarer occasion that I am definitely about to live up.
I don’t waste another moment ripping off the wrap and shoving a forkful of potato into my mouth. Heavenly flavors of garlic and butter assault my tongue, like Bonnie and Clyde on a country wide spree, resulting in a loud moan and me quickly scooping up a second bite.
And then a third.
And then a fourth and fifth and somewhere around the sixth the man at the front of my car lowers the hood just enough to grouse, “That’s really fucking distracting, baby.”
“Baby?” I lick away the amount that’s managed to get onto my lips. “Did you just call me baby?”
“No.” He rapidly shakes his head and continues to deny the accusation in spite of his very, very red face. “I said Bunny. Because your name is Bunny.”
