“You’re not even gonna try it?” Fletch asks.
“No.”
“I thought you liked adventure,” he says, taking another bite of his burger, which, for the record, looks and smells delicious. He chews slowly, his chiseled jaw working in a way that makes my hunger even worse. When he swallows, his throat bobs. “You said you liked trying new food.”
“Normally, I do.”
“But you blindly ordered something that sounded gross to you from the get-go because you thought it would make the server happy. Am I right?”
I stare longingly at his burger and whimper. “Yes.”
He gives me a knowing smirk.
And then he slides his plate across the table and grabs mine. “I had a burger for dinner last night, and I happen to love chicken fried steak,” he says. “Don’t read into this.”
His fingers graze mine as he pushes the plate toward me, and I pretend not to notice the way that light touch sends a zing up my arm, warming my heart. He’s pushed his hoodie sleeves up to his elbows, and when he pulls my plate toward him, his forearm flexes.
My eyes well with tears at the gesture, but I shake my head. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He looks away quickly, like he doesn’t know what to do with my tears. “It’s just food,” he mutters.
A wisp of gratitude curves up my lips. Right. Just food.
I pick up the burger and take a bite, pretending not to notice that I’m eating right where he did. Definitely not reading into that, either. I moan as the taste explodes in my mouth.
“Mmm. Good call adding the bacon.”
He cuts into the mess in front of him and takes a bite. “Not bad.”
“Not good,” I say. Then I glance around, feeling guilty. “Sorry, it’s probably great. I’m pickier than I let on to the server.”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” he says, taking another bite.
In only a few minutes, I’ve polished off the burger. I put my hands on my stomach. “I’m stuffed. Thank you, Ollie.”
The chicken fried steak is only half eaten, but he pushes it aside and grabs his plate back, shoving a French fry in his mouth. “Glad you liked it.”
I stare at the half-eaten plate. “Do you actually like chicken fried steak?” I ask.
His eyebrows pull together, like my question was dumb. “Of course I do. What kind of person eats something they don’t like just to make someone else feel better?”
“You didn’t eat it.”
“I ate plenty—I just like fries better. I told you: don’t read into this.”
Oh, I’m reading into it, all right. Every word is making me want to read on. “Don’t worry, I would never assume you’d do something to make someone else feel better,” I tease.
He gives me a sharp smile and throws a couple more fries into his mouth. “You’re a fast learner.”
Our server comes back with our bill, and Ollie grabs it before I can. “I got this,” he says, dropping a couple of twenties and then standing.
“I’ll get the next one,” I assure him.
“I’m not worried,” he says.
I put my coat back on and as we’re walking out, my eyes linger on the sign for the Mistletoe Express. I’ve traveled to so many places, but never for fun. I’ve been to New York City and never seen the Statue of Liberty. To Boston and never seen a RedSox game. To Wherever-The-Heck-We-Are, Colorado, and never seen the Mistletoe Express.
And suddenly, I ache for every place I’ve visited but not experienced.
