He starts the car and grins as though I picked the best possible option. “You read my mind.”
“You’re not judging me for wanting food so soon after that huge dinner we had earlier?”
“This is a judgment free space. Besides.” He taps his stomach. “Hockey player, remember? We can put away a lot of food. Any time is a good time for eats.”
He keeps hold of my hand the whole way to McDonalds, and I let him. His warmth is comforting, and when he starts humming grossly out of tune along to the radio, I think I’ve finally found his imperfection.
The man is tone deaf. Actually, that’s not even fair to tone deaf people. Justin Ashe singing should be a crime against humanity. I try to hide my wince but his voice is literally stabbing at my ear drums with a rusty blade. It hurts.
We pull into McDonalds’ parking lot just in the nick of time. I was seconds away from snatching my hand from his and clamping it over his mouth.
“Dine in or drive thru?”
I’m not quite ready to go back and face my folks yet, so I opt for inside.
“Take a seat, I’ll grab the food. McFlurry and fries?”
I nod. What he actually gets doesn’t really matter, I just need to feed my feelings so I don’t cry again.
Shit. I don’t have a purse with me. I didn’t think to grab it in my hurry to escape the meddling moms and my “Justin Ashe saved me from my family” stupor.
“I…” My cheeks burn. “I don’t have any cash with me. Let me run outside to see if Dad left any in the car.”
He arches a brow at me. “Sit.”
I cross my arms, the temptation to tell him to go to hell pretty strong.
“I’ve got this, Savannah.”
Generations of independent women in my family turn in their graves while I submit to letting him pay. It’s just a few bucks, I assure them quietly. I’ll pay him back.
After a few minutes, a tray with an ungodly amount of food on it is placed in front of me and a bashful Justin slides onto the chair across the table.
“I might have gotten carried away at the counter.”
“You think?” I laugh and swipe a fry. Crisp, salty, and fresh from the fryer.
“I panicked. Everything sounded good so I just…”
“Ordered all of it?”
He hands me my McFlurry and more fries than I can eat while he unwraps a double cheeseburger and takes a bite. He looks so happy right now I almost want to take a picture. My stomach flips. We had such a huge Thanksgiving dinner…surely he’s about to make himself sick on cheeseburgers?
“Justin?”
His face jerks up at my voice, and he tips his head but doesn’t speak. Another check in the pro column. I hate when people talk with their mouth full.
“Thank you.”
He swallows, shaking his head. “You don’t have anything to thank me for.”
I guffaw. I beg to differ. “You helped me on the plane.” I stick out my index finger, counting on my digits. “You brought my dad his favorite beer.” My middle finger is next. “Played with my sister.” Ring finger. “Manufactured an escape plan without being asked.”
His free hand wraps over mine, bending my extended fingers back toward my palm and puts his burger onto the wrapper on the tray.
With a squeeze of my hand he leans forward. He must be a full moon, and I’m the tide because I’m leaning toward him whether I want to or not. He’s got ketchup at the corner of his mouth and before I can control myself, my thumb is brushing it away. It’d be weird to lick it off my thumb, right?
He smiles at me, and my insides warm. “Thanks.”
