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“Well, what is it?”
“You like pizza?”
“Who doesn’t?”
We drive the short distance to Mama McCalister’s in companionable silence. He parks behind the restaurant and comes around and opens my door. I smirk at him, but it slips into a smile as I check him out again. He looks more casual frat boy than usual today. And either way, “You make a good Southerner.”
He smiles a gentle smile for me, then he helps me over a big crack in the parking lot’s asphalt. As we approach the door, he keeps my hand in his.
He picks a booth in the back, and when a lustful-looking waitress sashays over five seconds later, he orders chicken pizza.
“Chicken pizza? Are you kidding me?”
“What can I say?” He smiles. “Chicken? Pizza? It works. You agree?”
“Hell yes, it’s my very favorite thing ever.”
He smiles again (clearly he is going for a record). “Ever?” He leans across the table. “Even better than my harness?” he asks in a low voice.
My cheeks and neck burn. “That was dirty. Dirty-dealing. Unfair. Scandalous.”
“Wait until you see what I have for you today,” he says.
I’m blushing so much I’m worried tears might spill over. “Not in public,” I hiss.
He grins wickedly.
“Your teeth look nice and white. How was the dentist?”
“I got a good report. A cleaning too.”
He sits back in his seat and I notice, now that he’s not smiling, how tired his face looks.
“How about your other situation? With the... you know... the you-know-whos?”
“The you-know-whos?” He smirks. “Sounds like some Dr. Seuss there.”
“I love Dr. Seuss. Look!” I lift my shirt sleeve. “It’s YOU.”
He frowns and leans across the table. “Is that some kind of code?”
I laugh. “No, this little guy is from Oh, the Places You’ll Go by Dr. Seuss. It’s one of my favorite books ever. YOU is the star.”
The tattoo is on the inside of my bicep.
He wiggles his brows and rests his hands atop the table. “So will you succeed?”
“Yes, I will indeed.” I laugh happily. “I can see I’ve misjudged you. Not only do you read, but you seem to read a variety of things.”
A troubled look passes over his face, but it’s gone quickly. “I’m a Seuss buff,” he says.
“Really?”
“Maybe.”
I give him a curious look, but he just lifts a brow, and I know he’s not going to tell me what he meant by that.
“Do you have any tats?” I try.
