“That’s preposterous,” he scoffs. “Everyone knows moose make better burgers.”
“I stand corrected.” I laugh, pulling out my wallet.
After paying for our food, we slide down the counter. Drinks in hand, we stand waiting for our breakfast sandwiches. Other customers file up to the counter, while we remain in silence. Not uncomfortable or awkward silence, just companionable. Sipping my sweet, spicy tea, my eyes flick between the staff preparing our food and the sexy lumberjack beside me.
I play the game we all play when meeting someone: using the little external clues to put together a picture of who he is. His clothes are comfortable and well-worn, but clean. One hand grips the to-go cup, while the other brushes the back of his head as if he’s nervous.
Do I make him nervous?No, that can’t be.Men like him make people nervous, not the other way around.
Gnawing on my lower lip, I try to think of the last man I made nervous. Besides Cael, Trina’s fiancé who was terrified that her oldest and closest friend wouldn’t give him the stamp of approval, the last man with a wisp of nerves around me may have been Alex.Ugh, Alex.
“Pen,” I blurt.
His head tips to the right. “Pencil?”
Laughter bubbles out of me. “My name is Pen. Well, it’s actually Penelope Meadows, but my friends call me Pen.”
He grins. “Rowan.”
Of course, his name is Rowan.That name radiates big D hot guy energy. Not a Herman or Stanley vibe about him.
“Nice to meet you, Pen.” His hand envelops mine, sending a jolt of something zipping along my nerves.
I try not to fixate on that little tingle but have to admit failure. When was the last time my body reacted to someone like this?
“So, are you coming or going?”
Seriously? Coming or going? Who am I?I school my features into a pleasant smile stamping out the blooming wince at my non-stellar verbal skills.
“Excuse me?”
“Are you coming into town or leaving?”
“Both.”
“Overachiever,” I tease, pivoting towards him, and my arm brushes against his. My senses hum with the quick caress of his muscular body against mine.
He clears his throat. “I drove down from Hamilton, Ontario to catch my flight.”
“So, where you heading to?”
“L.A.”
“Me too!” I say with far too much pep.
What is wrong with me? I’m like an overexcited puppy. I should be cool and indifferent, not exclaim with the fevered devotion of two ten-year-olds exchanging friendship bracelets on the first day of camp.
“Well,notL.A. I live in Seal Beach, but LAX is a direct flight getting me the hell out of here sooner.”
Why am I sputtering?Awkward, party of one.
“Not a fan of Buffalo?” He shifts, turning to face me.
“I have nothing against Buffalo as a city. People are nice. Love the wings. It’s just…”
Stop talking, Pen!Do not emotionally vomit on this poor man. All he wanted was breakfast, not to have you overshare.
“…just prefer being home.” I tighten my hold on Cane Austen’s handle.
