Page 20 of Quarter Miles (Runaway 3)

“No. Let’s just explore.” Eventually we’d have to engage the GPS, but for this first day, I wanted to simply find my way. To embrace the adventure.

“All right.” Cash plucked our quarter from the cupholder, positioning it on a knuckle and flicking the edge with his thumbnail. Up it went, end over end, until it smacked in his palm. “Heads.”

“Left.” I cranked the wheel.

That quarter was lucky. Three blocks down, a neon-orange sign caught my eye with the word Vacancy illuminated. Across the street from the Imperial Inn was a restaurant, Harry’s Supper Club. The letter board beneath an arrow dotted with light bulbs advertised Daily Prime Rib Special.

“Here?” I asked.

“Sold,” Cash said. “I’m starving.”

“Dinner first.” I pulled into the parking lot of Harry’s and twisted to grab my purse from the back. The restaurant was dim compared to the bright evening light outside. The décor, rustic and primarily wood, would have fit well at the ranch. But the smell—my God, the smell—made my stomach growl.

Juicy steak and homemade rolls and fluffy potatoes. I was practically drooling by the time the hostess escorted us to a navy booth in the corner. The light hanging over our table gave off a golden glow, enough to reflect glare off the plastic-covered menus. We ordered our drinks and as the waitress described the prime rib special, Cash and I shared the same hungry look.

“Two, please,” he told her. “Medium rare. Ranch on the salads. Extra croutons on mine. No tomatoes on hers.”

Someday, when—if—I decided to start dating, I hoped the man I chose to sit across from me would take as much notice as Cash so he’d be able to order exactly what I wanted too. It wasn’t like I couldn’t order myself, but it made me feel special, cherished, that someone knew me well enough to place my order for me.

“We should have made a note of how many miles were on the Cadillac before we started today,” Cash said after the waitress delivered our waters. “Would be interesting to know exactly how far we go.”

“Oh, I wrote it down in the car.”

Cash chuckled. “Always one step ahead of me.”

I smiled. “I try.”

“So tell me more about the junkyard.” He leaned back in the booth, draping one long arm across the back.

He’d worn a long-sleeved Henley today, a shirt I’d bought him two years ago for Christmas because I’d thought the grayish green would bring out the matching flecks in his eyes. The sleeves were pushed up toward his elbows and the muscles on his forearms were tight ropes, strong and defined from years of physical work. The cotton clung to his biceps and stretched across his broad chest. The buttons at the collar were open, revealing a sliver of tan skin and barely a hint of dark hair.

Damn, I’d done good with that shirt. I dropped my eyes to my water, taking a long gulp, hoping the cold liquid would squelch the fire spreading through my veins.

It would be a lot easier to fall out of love with Cash if he weren’t so attractive. But how was I supposed to ignore that gorgeous face? How was I supposed to act ambivalent toward that Herculean body and how Cash wielded it with surprising grace? And the way that man looked on a horse, the way his hips glided in a saddle and his bulky thighs clenched—a dull throb bloomed in my core. Even the mental image of him on horseback was intoxicating. Ignore Cash? Impossible. I might as well attempt to drive the Cadillac to the moon.

“Kat.”

I blinked, forcing my eyes away from my glass. “Huh?”

“The junkyard. Tell me about it. Or about growing up in California.”

I scrunched up my no

se. If there was a topic to take my mind off this insane attraction to my best friend, California was the winner. The state itself wasn’t to blame. Many loved its temperate weather and abundance of activities and Hollywood flair. But when I thought of California, I thought of my mother.

Cash was tugging on my memory box’s chain again.

“Did you decide on a name for that new foal yet?” I asked, hoping to steer the conversation away from my past. It might have worked had any other person sat opposite me.

“Daisy. And I see what you’re doing here.” Cash’s chuckle drifted across the table, the low vibration melting into my bones. “I don’t want to talk about home or work. Tell me something I don’t know. Pretend it’s a date and we’re getting to know each other.”

A date.

I gulped. This wasn’t a date. Yes, we were at a nice restaurant in a secluded booth. The lack of a bustling crowd meant the room was hushed, weaving the illusion of intimacy. But this wasn’t a romance.

This wasn’t a date.

Except it felt like one. Not that I’d been on many lately. It was hard to go out with one man when you were in love with another.