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I hover at the front bumper while she opens her door and steps up on the running board, lifting herself easily. Our eyes meet through the windshield. She smirks as she tugs her door closed, probably knowing I was waiting around, hoping she needed my help so I could watch the view from behind. I’m so basic.
I hop in the driver’s side, buckle up, and crank the engine before glancing to my side. She looks so good in that seat, nothing like a Boston socialite, but more like a college girl heading off to Texas.
“You know this area better than me. Where’s good?” I ask.
She pulls one of her legs up, tucking it under her as she sits sideways and looks at me. Her cold shoulder is warming to me again. I’m glad.
“Biff’s, which I know sounds so stereotypical, and believe me—it is. But it is also amazing. Like,uh-mazing.” She’s talking with her hands, using them to mime the shape of the burger, and it makes me chuckle.
“What?”
I shake my head and shift into reverse, then check my mirrors.
“You surprise me, that’s all. Here you are, Miss Louis Vuitton, and you love trucks and burgers.” I press the gas and roll us back.
“You should see me haul ass in a Jeep up a steep mountain trail.” She clicks her tongue and shifts back to face forward, proud of her brag.
“I’d like to see that, actually. Very much,” I say through light laughter.
Morgan directs me as we navigate our way further out of town, away from the city, until we come upon a legitimate burger joint off the side of the main highway. I pull us into Biff’s and park at a small intercom box to give our order. It crackles as the guy working speaks through it, asking us what we would like.
I glance to Morgan and suck in my lips.
“No clue. You’re the one who demanded burgers,” I say.
She unbuckles her seat belt and leans over the center console, placing a hand on the seat between my legs as she stretches across my body. “I got this,” she says, her sexy confidence working its way into my veins.
“Two number sevens with extra cheese and hot pickles. Oh, and make the drinks cherry coke with the real stuff.” She turns her head enough to meet my eyes, then flits her gaze down to my crotch before pulling her lips into a tight smile and easing back into her seat.
I’m hypnotized. She could have ordered live octopus with ketchup, and I’d accept it. I slip my credit card into the crusty, ancient machine attached to the call box, not sure if I’m spending twenty bucks or a hundred. I don’t really care.
“The pickles are a test,” she says as I tuck my card back into my wallet, then shove the wallet into the back pocket of my jeans.
“A pickle test,” I reiterate, making sure I heard that right.
“Yup.” Morgan slides down in her seat and props her feet up on the dash. My dad would hate that. I don’t care.
“Biff’s hot pickles are like . . .” She swirls her hand in front of her face with thought. “They’re like truth serum. You know a person’s soul based on how they handle them.”
My brow shoots up and I shift, leaning against my door.
“They sound serious. What if I’m allergic to pickles?”
“Hmmm, I don’t know, James. I think that’s an automatic disqualification,” she teases.
“Pity. I mean, I might be. Sure would hate to risk death.” I challenge her stare with my own, our features trapped in a seductive dare. She glances up and to the side after a few seconds, then shakes her head.
“That is a pity. I guess I’ll have to finish my dinner, then have you take me home.” Her hands move to the bottom of her sweatshirt and she works it up her body, revealing a white skin-tight tank top that scoops low and displays her breasts like the fucking goddess fruits they are.
“Let’s see, two sevens and cherries?” The voice behind me rattles me awake and I turn and take the bag of food from a kid who I guess is a newly minted fifteen. Fucker must like fruit too because his eyes are locked on Morgan’s chest from the moment he stepped up to my truck window.
“Thanks. We’re good,” I say once our order is in my lap and the drinks in the truck cupholders. I flit the young lad away with my hand and press the button to raise the window before he can gawk a second more.
Morgan’s laugh rasps in her chest as her head falls back and her full lips grin from ear to ear. She won this round. And even though I fucking hate pickles, I sure as shit will love these. I dig through the box until I find the small bag. I slip out a spear and lean my head back, dropping the pickle down my throat almost without a single chew.
“Oh . . . James, no . . .” Morgan’s hands are on my arm, attempting to pull my hand from my face as she blurts out a panicked warning. I don’t understand it until three seconds into my pickle consumption when my esophagus literally lights on fire.
“Oh, my God!” I gasp, my voice gone from the burn. I swear my insides are burning up, shriveling, and turning to dust. I don’t know what the hell those things are, but they are evil.Evil!
