“Sure. Let’s stop.”
“That’s the first thing we’ve agreed on all day, Ollie Fletcher.”
She’s smiling when she says it, and for a second, the car feels even smaller.
“You can just call me Fletch or Ollie,” I tell her.
She gives me a sideways look as she stops at the light at the turn into the little Colorado town. “I’m really not sure I can,” she says.
“I believe in you, Lewis.”
“You definitely can’t call me Lewis,” she says, turning the wheel.
I watch her a beat too long. “That’s two things we agree on.”
CHAPTER SIX
POPPY
Fletch has to unfold himself from the car like a camping chair, and the poor little thing creaks when he steps out, like it’s grateful to be free of him. He stands to his full height, and I swear I hear his spine sigh in relief. The car door stays open behind him while he stretches, the seat shoved so far back, it’s practically kissing the backseat.
“I’m starving,” I say, walking up to the Evergreen Junction Café. On the window, there’s a faded advertisement for the “Mistletoe Express.” I’m still looking at it when Fletch opens the door.
He doesn’t walk through.
“What are you doing?” I ask, taking note of how tall and broad he is. Outside of the car, somehow he looks even bigger—filling the doorway, practically blocking the frame.
“Uh, getting the door for you?” He looks around like this is the most obvious thing in the world.
Is it?
“Oh, right. Thanks,” I say, brushing past him in the narrow entrance. I catch a hint of cedar from his soap or deodorant, an attractive masculine smell that’s probably called Yeti Bait, or something.
The café is cute, if dated, with red and green plaid tablecloths, garlands drooping from the ceiling, and a fake Christmas tree in the corner that’s seen better days.
A server tells us to sit anywhere, so Fletch and I grab an open table and start glancing at the menu. The cold clings to my coat, and my teeth clatter until I stop them.
Fletch closes his menu quickly and taps two fingers on the tabletop.
“You already know what you want?” I ask.
“A burger,” he says.
I tilt my head. It’s a four-page menu. “I imagine you want to get back on the road, but I’m gonna need a minute,” I warn him.
The server comes by a moment later. She looks to be in her late-50s—pretty and tired. I put my menu down to smile at her.
“Can I get you two something to drink?”
“Chocolate milk,” I say.
“Lemonade,” Fletch says. “And I already know what I want.”
She pulls out a tiny notepad. “Okay. What’ll you have?”
“The Mountain Man Burger, medium rare, no pickles or onions. Add bacon.”
“Got it. And you, hon?” she asks me.
