My cock stirs at the prospect.
I guess you’d better get used to the sight.
Her words echo in my head, and I silently curse.
Lucy’s panties are supposed to be sensible. Practical, like her.
Not that I’ve been thinking about her panties.
Things between us are complicated enough. Adding sex to the mix would be disastrous.
Unfortunately, my body didn’t get the memo.
“All set,” the attendant says, passing my card back.
Ten minutes later, I’m snapping pics of Lucy with the Route 66 sign. It’s small, brown, and surprisingly dull. Not to mention easy to miss.
We take a few serious pictures, and then a few silly ones with her making faces at the camera. I AirDrop the last one to my phone—a pic of Lucy sticking her tongue out—before she can protest.
I hand her phone back, and she flips through the pictures, frowning.
“These are terrible. And my hair is a mess.” She reaches up to smooth a flyaway hair. The Windy City moniker is no joke. Even my hair has succumbed to the gusting wind. “Maybe we should take a few more?”
I lean down, peering over her shoulder. “No way. You look great, as always.”
Lucy’s beauty isn’t the showy, head-turning kind. It’s quiet and understated, just like her, and there’s an intelligent gleam in her dark eyes that commands attention, even through the lens of a camera.
She turns to look at me, her mouth a hair’s breadth from my own. We’re so close I can smell her sweet, floral shampoo and the crisp, minty scent of her toothpaste. She quickly turns back to the phone.
“No matter.” She slips the phone into her bag. “I can always edit them, or maybe put a filter on, before I post.”
Why the hell would she want to do that when she’s perfect just the way she is?
“So much for showing real people.” I slip my hands into my pockets and match her stride as she sets out for Lou Mitchell’s, the diner where we’re scheduled to have breakfast.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks, giving me a healthy dose of side-eye.
“Don’t look at me like that. You’re the one who said the world needs more relatable social media influencers, not more airbrushed, photoshopped images that uphold impossible beauty standards.”
Lucy laughs.
Okay, so maybe I paraphrased a little, but that was the gist of it.
“Well,” she says, hooking her arm through mine, “at least I can count on you to keep me on brand. Now, if only you’d give Gizmo a chance.”
Not going to happen. “Don’t press your luck. Even I have my limits.”
When we arrive at Lou Mitchell’s, a historic diner that, according to Lucy, has been serving travelers on the Mother Road—because, yes, that’s what fanatics call Route 66—for nearly a century, the hostess greets us with complimentary donut holes and tiny boxes of Milk Duds.
Lucy lights up, a wide smile splitting her face as the hostess explains the Greek tradition of offering guests a sweet treat as a welcome greeting.
The instant we’re seated, Lucy tears her box open and pops one of the chocolate-covered caramels into her mouth.
“Why Milk Duds?” I ask, turning the small yellow box over in my hand. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s a definite upgrade over starlight mints, but it’s an odd choice, isn’t it?”
“Uncle Lou and the owner of the Milk Duds factory were friends,” she says, chewing. “I read about it on the website. I think it’s sweet—no pun intended—that the family still honors the tradition today.”
“Agreed.” I pull out my phone just in time to snap a pic of her popping another tiny brown candy into her mouth. “You should include it in today’s posts.”
