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“What do you want?” I ask. Nova spends a lot of time at W.T.F. with me, so she orders a variety of menu items.
“Surprise me,” she pleads.
“What if I get it wrong?”
She waves her hand dismissively. “You won’t. I’m not in the mood for any certain thing so you’ll be fine.”
“Suit yourself,” I say, and flip around to place her order.
I order myself something too, since I can take my break any time—perks of days I come in earlier. Most days, I work the late shift and there’s no time for a break.
While I wait for our food to be done I tend to the other people at the bar and get caught up on drinks I need to make for the other tables in the restaurant.
Every time I glance at Nova she has a sullen expression on her face. Something tells me it has nothing to do with that guy, but I can’t be sure of what it might be. Nova is a hard nut to crack—harder than me. I know she’s told me more about herself than she has the girls, but I still don’t know much other than she’s from Texas and her family was really strict. She doesn’t talk about them much, though—at all, honestly. Like, I don’t even know if she has any siblings, and I don’t like to pry, because if I pry then she’ll think she has the right to know more about me, and I’m not going down that path.
Our food comes up and I grab it, telling my manager, Bethany, that I’m taking my break. She waves me off, unbothered since we’re not that busy now and she knows I wouldn’t be taking a break if we were.
I come out of the kitchen and around the bar, setting Nova’s food down in front of her—the grilled chicken sandwich—and mine at the empty spot beside her. I slide pull out the stool and sit down.
“You’re eating with me?” She sounds surprised, because it’s not often that I do this.
“Yeah,” I say. I point to my nachos. “Have some if you want any.”
“That’s your dinner?” She raises a brow.
“Yup.” I grin, shoving a nacho into my mouth.
She shakes her head. “How you’re skinny as a rail is beyond me.”
“Height, genetics.” I tick them off on my fingers. “And gym time.”
“You go to the gym once a month when Xander and Cade force you to go,” she snorts.
“I know.” I grin back. “And I look this good already. Imagine if I went every day. I’d blow minds.”
She shakes her head and picks up her sandwich. She takes a bite and lets out a soft moan. I don’t think she even realizes she’s made the sound.
“That’s good,” she says, wiping a bit of the sauce from the corner of her mouth. She takes another bite and then reaches for one of my nachos, dipping it in sour cream.
“So …” I begin, and then trail off. I want to ask her about what else is bothering her, because it’s obvious something is, but I can’t pry. Instead, I ask, “Football game this weekend?”
“Yeah,” she says forlornly. “Confession …” Her voice grows quiet, and I tense with anticipation at what she’s going to say. “I hate flying,” she admits. “I vowed after I flew from Texas to here that I would never fly again.”
I chuckle. “I would’ve never guessed that the great Novalee Clarke would be afraid of flying.”
She shrugs, unbothered by my poking. “We’re all afraid of stupid things.” She’s right. Of course. “What stupid thing are you afraid of?” she asks. “There has to be something.”
“Rodents,” I answer without a second of thought. “Mice, rats, that kind of thing.”
Her lips twitch with the threat of laughter. “And you made fun of me for being afraid to fly.”
“In my defense, I had a friend growing up with pet mice—they got out of the cage, and it was a fucking nightmare trying to catch them. I got bit so many times I was convinced I was going to get rabies. My mom had to take me to the doctor because I was so freaked and nothing she said would calm me down.”
“You don’t talk about your mom or dad much,” Nova remarks, with wide open eyes, begging me to open up.
“Neither do you.” My voice is firm and rather rude, and I flinch because I sound exactly like my father—a man I vowed to never become.
“Touché,” she mutters and lets the conversation drop, wiping her hands on a napkin.
