Scottie looked up ratings and found this place, where we’re now waiting for our meals while we eat fried pickles and cheese curds, at Oliver’s suggestion.
“I’ve never had fried cheese curds before,” I say, popping two in my mouth. They’re warm and chewy and way more flavorful than the mozzarella stick flavor I was expecting. And the way they melt in my mouth? Mmm. “I think I’m in love.”
“I thought you were done being adventurous at restaurants,” he says, bumping his knee against mine. And leaving it there.
Under the table, I prop my foot up on the rung of my chair, taking pressure off my ankle. It’s throbbing, but tolerable. Clara really knew what she was doing.
I give my shoulders a little lift and look up at him. “Maybe it’s about the right kind of adventure.”
The server refreshes our drinks, and Jake makes a point of asking, “This is a Guinness 0, right? Non-alcoholic?”
The server nods. “I double-checked,” she says.
I glance at Scottie, whose eyes soften as she listens to Jake talking to the server. There’s no hint of chemistry between them, but it’s clear she cares like family.
And she’s annoyed like a sister would be when he works the room—signing autographs, tossing out winks like confetti, and charming wives, girlfriends, and single women with equal ease. Nobody calls him on it. He’s Jake Rodgers.
In the middle of dinner, a gorgeous woman comes over smelling of alcohol and bad decisions. “You’re Jake Rodgers,”she says, playing with her hair and leaning close. “And I’m single.”
He doesn’t bother looking, not at her face and not at her plunging neckline. Instead, he slings an arm around Scottie.
“I’m not,” he says. “Me and the old lady are staying in tonight. Big plans, right, hon?”
Scottie rolls her eyes but plays along. “Sure, hot stuff.”
The woman doesn’t take the hint. Until Jake drains his non-alcoholic beer and kisses Scottie right on the mouth.
It’s … bad. Painfully bad. Like cousins forced to kiss to win a bet, or something equally unpleasant.
The woman stands stark upright, gives the back of Jake’s head a withering glare, and then saunters off.
“Should we tell them she’s gone?” Oliver says under his breath to me.
“Definitely,” I say. Then louder: “She’s gone,” I say.
Jake instantly lets go of Scottie, and they both wipe their mouths, her with a napkin, him with the back of his fitted waffle shirt.
“Ugh, you kiss like a jellyfish,” Scottie says. She takes a long drink of her Coke and swishes it around in her mouth.
“You should be so lucky,” Jake says, eyes back on the screen. “You haven’t had braces in years. Why do you taste like metal?”
Scottie whimpers and looks straight at Oliver. “Please don’t let the Firebirds send him down.”
“That’s not my call,” Oliver says, stone-faced, but his fingers graze mine under the table. An anchor touch. Then his eyebrow twitches with something like mischief. “But hey, maybe if someone posts this, you’ll finally convince Lucas Fischer you’re off the table. Win-win.”
Scottie freezes. Her laugh is too high, too thin. “Yeah. Win-win.”
I don’t know who Lucas Fischer is, but when Scottie blinks too hard and leans back just an inch, I’m positive she doesn’t like the idea of him backing off.
“There’s more to that story,” I say in Oliver’s ear when Scottie and Jake are both watching a game.
“What story?”
“Scottie and Lucas Fischer,” I whisper. “She has a crush on him.”
He chuckles and his lips brush against my ear, making me forget what being cold even feels like. “You sure?”
“Pretty sure,” I say softly.
