We’re lounging in bed, dressed in fluffy robes, a nearly finished tray of room service spread out before us. I’ve plowed throughthe roasted brussels sprouts and the seared cauliflower, and now it’s time for the best part of any meal. “You can dip it in ketchup, pesto, mayo, hot sauce, ranch, barbecue sauce—the list goes on. You can have them loaded. With truffle shavings if you’re bourgeois. In a paper cup at a football game. You can have them as a snack or a side or a meal. Fries go with sandwiches, with eggs, with veggie burgers. They even go with salad. Hence, their versatility.” I pause, to make my point. “But they also pair with ice cream and milkshakes. And chocolate. Ergo, the noble French fry really is the perfect food.”
“I still think bread is,” he says, resolute.
I stare at Sawyer like he can’t be serious. “Really?”
“What? I do.”
“How can you choose bread over French fries?”
“I like bread. It’s an appetizer, a temporary fill-you-upper, the essence of a sandwich, and it’s also the unsung hero in…wait for it…avocado toast. The dish the world didn’t know it needed until it needed it.”
Damn. He has an excellent point. But I shrug it off, since so do I. I wrap my fingers around the tray and tug it closer to me on the bed. “You may be right, but that just means I can keep these all to myself.”
“Hey, don’t hoard the fries, woman,” he says.
“Ah, so you’re admitting the French fry is best?”
With a fearless look in his eyes, he shakes his head. “Nope. But if I caved, you wouldn’t like me.”
“Who says I like you?”
His dark eyes journey down my body. “It’s eleven. You’re in bed with me. You invited me to your room. You like me.”
I growl. “Stop saying mean things like that.”
He laughs. “What’s worse? That I prefer bread or that I know you like me?”
“Both,” I mutter, then take another fry and defiantly munch on it.
He reaches for one on the plate. “It’s cool that you like me. Just means you have good taste.”
“I have good taste?Youhave good taste,” I counter.
He finishes chewing, then wiggles his brows as he looks my way. “You bet I fucking do.”
The compliment lands with a little zing in my chest, and I bask in it for a beat as Sawyer parks his hands behind his head. It’s a good look—this wholeman in repose in a hotel bedthing. “But I will concede,” he says, “there’s nothing like French fries to erase the day.”
I smile, relaxing my shoulders. “They’re truly the perfect escape. Though honestly, wine and ice cream help too,” I say, and to emphasize my point, I reach for my chardonnay from the nightstand and lift the glass.
He takes his and clinks it with mine.
We drink, then munch on a few more fries before moving the tray off to the bureau. After I polish off my glass of wine, I’m thoroughly feeling the escapist vibes. Just to be sure he’s on the same page, I ask, “So, we agree this is a one-time thing, right? We needed an escape tonight?”
He laughs, the dry kind, then nods. “Definitely.”
I’m not even bothered by the speed of his answer. I don’t have the time, space, or interest foranythingromantic in my life. Let alone with a man who likely lives nearly two hours away from me here in the city. My car would never be able to handle regular trips to date. With that detail settled, I feel the freedom to ask the next question. Or, really, to offer a challenge. “Since we’ll never see each other again, tell me what you needed to escape, and I’ll do the same. Whoever has the better sob story gets to pick the dessert we’ll order.”
He lets out a low whistle. “Damn, woman. Just pry around in my heart, why don’t you.”
I’m emboldened though. “It’s a proven fact that venting gets rid of all the bad vibes.”
He scoffs, shaking his head. “Pretty sure you’re making shit up.”
“Nope. It’s true,” I insist. “You know what else is fact?”
Sawyer rolls his eyes, but says with a laugh, “Tell me.”
“Treats taste better if you have to vie for them.”
