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“This is hangover food.” I stared at the pictures of plates stacked high with pancakes, eggs and toast, bacon and hash browns.
Ryan looked confused. “You are hung-over, aren’t you?”
I scratched my head, rumpling my already messy hair. “Maybe.” In fact, I could feel myself entering Stage Two of hung-overness. Stage One was grouchy and ill and pissed off. Stage Two was a lot sleepier.
Ryan stepped up to the counter. “Two number fives, please.”
“I don’t want number five. I want the special.”
Ryan looked up at the words scratched in pink chalk. “Cocoa pancakes with strawberries covered with chocolate sauce and whipped cream?’” He shook his head in disgust. “You are such a girl.”
“I am a girl.” I almost stomped my foot. “So? And I’d like a chocolate milkshake, too, please.”
Ryan sighed and handed the girl a twenty. “Come on.” He put an arm around me and tried to propel me toward a small booth. “Let’s sit down.”
“You can’t always pay for everything!” I instantly regretted my shrill tone as vibrations echoed through my head. I hardly protested as he pushed me down on the cracked plastic cushions.
“Haven’t we gone over this before?” Ryan sounded terribly long-suffering from his side of the booth. “I can. Because you are poor, and I not.”
I aimed a sneaky glance his way. “Are you really a millionaire?”
“Don’t you think it’s pushing it to ask me my income?’
“I thought we’d already established we’re allowed to be rude to each other. Where’d all the money come from?”
“Jesus!” he exclaimed, thudding his head back against the wooden backboard topping the booth. “I’ve won the Heisman and MVP. I’ve taken my team to the Super Bowl. Why is this concept so hard for you to grasp?”
I supposed that meant he was worth his multi-million dollar contract. And maybe he did endorsements. “Did you say you did commercials?”
He tilted his head. “Yeah, like a week or two ago.”
“Give me your phone.”
“What?”
“Your phone.” I stretched my hand across the table. “You’re a millionaire, so you have a smartphone, right?”
“No.”
I lunged for his jacket, yanking it across the table and toppling the ketchup and mustard. Ryan tried to grab it back. “What are you doing? What is wrong with you?” I scrambled through the pockets until I found what I was looking for: a sleek, black cell with a screen the size of my hand.
“Aha!”
“Give that back.” Ryan glared at me. “Rachael. You’re acting like a five year old.”
I pulled up the browser and typed in “Ryan Carter car commercial.”
“Give that back!” He half fell on the table as he lunged across it.
I raised my brows. “Who’s acting like a five year old?”
Letting out a frustrated sigh and rolling his eyes upward theatrically, he came over to my side of the booth. When I held the cell to the opposite side, he slid into the booth next to me.
“Personal bubble,” I reminded him, clicking on the video and waiting for it to load. “Come any closer and I’ll yell ‘Ryan Carter’s right here!’ and that family filled with like five twelve-year-old boys is going to storm over and you’ll never be safe. Oh, look, it’s loaded.”
Ryan groaned.
A shiny, sleek car zoomed around corners, while slow-motion shots of Ryan throwing passes were interchanged with a sickeningly adorable home video of him running around in an overlarge jersey and shaggy hair.
