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“That’s good old-fashioned home cookin’.” He opened the door.
“Or the lead-up to a coronary event.”
He chuckled. “I’m sure they have some sort of salad option for you, Alexia. C’mon, I’m starving.”
They walked—or in his case, limped—into the place together. A waitress called, “Seat yourselves anywhere!”
Alexia pointed at a table for two. The booth seemed too intimate.
When they crossed the restaurant, Tripp’s limp garnered a lot of attention. Several customers looked at him with concern or empathy in their gazes. The waitress stopped on her way to another table and hugged the coffeepot to her bosom with a sad expression on her face.
Ugh—was everybody buying into Tripp’s act?
She leaned over to hiss at him. “If you were actually hurt, you would be seeking medical attention by now. You’re not going to let an injury go when you make a living off your body.”
He grunted. “You make me sound like a male dancer.”
She almost faltered but made it to the vacant seat. The image of Bryson Tripp onstage, gyrating those muscular hips and wearing that bad-boy smirk left her panties feeling a little hot and steamy.
Luckily, they were only seated for heartbeats before a crusty-looking waitress showed up to take their orders.
Tripp pushed the laminated menu that was a little too sticky toward the waitress. “I’ll have two bacon cheeseburgers. A little pink inside. And a side of onion rings.”
Alexia leaned across the table. “You’re not sleeping in bed with me if you’re having onion rings.”
He captured her stare. “Fries, then.” He threw the waitress his dazzling smile. “Thank you.”
The waitress was of an undetermined age. She might be in her thirties or sixties. Her blonde hair could be graying. Either way, the poor woman was washed up, overworked and had probably been here since the day the doors opened.
She swung her gaze to Alexia. “And for you, hon?”
“I’ll take the grilled chicken breast and rice pilaf.”
“Sorry, that menu’s outdated. We don’t have rice anymore.”
“All right, I’ll take the broccoli cheddar soup.”
“Just dished up my last bowl.”
“What are my options?” Alexia couldn’t look at Tripp. Just seeing that smirk he probably wore made her want to smash the ketchup bottle over his head.
“Fries or onion rings, hon.” The waitress sounded tired too.
Feeling bad for the poor woman, Alexia went easy on her but held Tripp’s gaze as she said, “I’ll have the onion rings.”
Tripp’s snort gained a genuine smile from the waitress.
When she took their order to the cook, he settled his forearms on the table. “You really don’t want me sharing that bed with you, do you?”
Alexia smiled. “Not in the least.”
His deep laugh sent a throb low in her core. She spent the next ten minutes as they waited for their food thinking about why the man had any effect on her at all, let alonethatkind of effect.
Since she traveled a lot and worked with a variety of people, Alexia was used to sharing meals with strangers. She wasn’t prepared for Tripp squirting that much ketchup on the side of his plate, though.
While she meticulously sliced into her chicken breast, she shot him glances. When he dunked his burger into the puddle of ketchup, she paused mid-cut.
“What is that?” she asked.
