“I did okay?” She wasn’t so sure. Some shots had gone wide of the target, not even hitting it, while others had hit the target. She was showing her insecurities, but she didn’t care. She was just being herself, which seemed to be so easy with him.
“For your first time shooting a gun? More than okay. Did you enjoy yourself?”
She thought for a minute, trying to decide if she’d enjoyed herself. He’d made it easy. “Yes,” she said, surprised the answer was true.
“Good. I’m hungry. You ready to eat?”
“Yes.” That, she had an answer for right away. She was hungrier than she’d thought she’d be.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.” He picked up the guns, and she held the targets and picked up the remaining ammo.
Once outside the range, they removed their eye and ear protection and then he put the guns in their cases.
“Okay, before we go eat, you’ll want to wash your hands.” He glanced down hers. “Gunpowder.”
“Oh! Right. Yes, I’d like to freshen up.”
“We passed the restrooms on the way in. You’ll see them as we go out. I’m going to put these back in the trunk, and then I’ll meet you in the waiting area.”
“Okay.” The waiting area she’d seen had leather couches, and that must be where he meant. “I’ll wait for you there.”
She entered the ladies’ room, washed her hands, then used the facilities and washed her hands again. It didn’t hurt to be too clean. She wasn’t sure if she smelled like gunpowder or if the scent was just in her nose, but the soap in the ladies’ room had a nice scent, so that helped.
How does one remain pretty and sweet-smelling when on a date at the gun range? The soap, I guess. Or maybe that isn’t as important to men as I thought it was.
She thought about the primping she’d done after work to get ready for her informal jeans and T-shirt date and laughed to herself.
He probably didn’t even notice. His mind is on guns.
Coming out of the ladies’ room and around the corner to where the waiting area was, she saw Reed already standing and waiting for her.
Had she taken that long? Or was he just fast.
He gave her a wide smile, and then placing his hand at the small of her back, escorted her into the restaurant and to a table. It was an informal, ‘seat yourselves’ restaurant, and it was getting busy. He sat them at one of two tables left.
“Does the special sound good to you, or would you like to see the menu?” he asked, pointing at the blackboard.
“Oh, I’m fine with the special. I like good old-fashioned foods, like meatloaf and mashed potatoes.”
“Great!” He signaled for the waitress, who came over with pen and pad.
“Ready to order?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am. We’ll both have the special,” he said.
“And to drink?”
“What do you have?” Christie asked. Maybe she’d needed that menu after all.
The waitress rattled off a list of soft drinks, until she hit one that sounded good to Christie. “Root beer,” she said. “I haven’t had that in a long time.”
“Good choice. It’s from a local bottling company,” the waitress said. “Everyone likes it.”
“I’ll have tea, unsweetened, and bring sugar,” Reed said.
“You’re a sweet tea drinker,” Christie said.
“Texas, born and raised. We drank it like water down there, with nearly every meal,” he said.
