“Believe it or not, sloths only do their business once a week.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re joking.”
“Nope, definitely not.” He slid the mobile back into his pocket. “Sloths digest their food slowly. It’s something that they’ve evolved over millions of years to be able to do since a lot of the plants they eat are poisonous. Their stomachs have to be able to break down the toxins, and the result is a once-a-week poop.”
“Fascinating. I’m learning more about sloths than I ever thought I would. I can see why you love them so much. They’re kind of your spirit animal.”
“They are. Sloths do everything in their own time and in their own style.” Standing up, Tim stretched too. “It’s seven-thirty. Are you okay if we go out for dinner? If not, I understand. We can order some takeout and keep things low-key. I just thought it might be nice if our first date was a little special.”
“Our first date,” she whispered. Her pulse quickened, and the butterflies in her stomach fluttered their wings. “It’s really happening. I wasn’t sure if you might be ready to take things to the next level. We haven’t had all that much time being with one another in person.”
“Just because we haven’t taken the traditional route to dating doesn’t mean anything to me.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “We text, talk, and video chat with one another every day. I think it’s safe to say we’re well into the friend zone. But I want more.” He swallowed hard. “I knew when we first met that you were special, and I’ve been waiting to spoil you for a long time Gemma-rella. I have the patience of a sloth.”
Gemma’s body warmed. “I guess that means we’re in the sloth zone, then? We’re doing things our own speed and style.”
“The sloth zone,” he mouthed. “I couldn’t have put it better myself.” His smile reached his eyes, highlighting the flecks of gold within his hazel eyes. “So, Gemma-rella, does this mean it’s a yes to going out for our first formal date?”
“Yes. It’s a yes.”
Tim fist pumped. “Let me show you how a princess should be treated.”
Oh, Tim, you’re already spoiling me just being so sweet.
* * *
“Have you ever been to a classic American diner before?” Tim asked a half hour later as he parked the car in front of the Lucky Dog Diner.
“No. This is a first.”
The building’s brick walls were adorned with vintage soda-pop advertisements and contained cheerful hand-painted murals depicting scenes of life in Sequoia Valley. Her eyes, however, were drawn up to the roof, where a giant dachshund dog sat wearing a chef’s hat and a bow tie.
“This is one of my favorite places in the area. In the summer, they host weekly drive-in movies. The servers will skate out to the car to take your order, and bring you your food.”
“That sounds amazing. We have a few diners in the UK, but I’ve never been to one.” Gemma closed the car door and followed Tim to the entrance. “What is the story with the large dog?”
“That’s Zippy, the mascot of the place.” He held the doors open. “When the dinner opened in the forties, the real-life Zippy used to greet customers as they walked in. He’d wear a little hat and tie, just like the statue.”
“Is there still a Zippy?”
“I wish. The current owners have huskies. They don’t allow dogs inside unless they’re service animals.”
Entering the restaurant, Gemma was immediately enveloped by the scent of brewing coffee, sizzling bacon, and freshly-baked pies. The air hummed with the lively chatter of customers seated at the counter facing the cook. Retro big-band music played softly in the background.
“Hey, Steve.” Tim waved hello to the chef who gestured for them to take a seat at one of the red vinyl booths in the back corner of the diner. Large windows looked out onto the darkened pine forest.
“This is my go-to place whenever I need some comfort food. The Lucky Dog has the best burgers, fries, hot dogs, and milkshakes. I used to come here as a kid every weekend with my dad after fishing on the lake.”
“I love that.”
“I know this might not have been what you were expecting, but this is me in a nutshell.” He handed her one of the laminated double-sided menus situated on the table by the ketchup and mustard. “If you don’t see anything you like, we can go to Millie’s Steakhouse or somewhere else.”
She placed a hand on top of his. “No. This place is perfect.” A few moments of silence elapsed between them as she stared at the menu. “Just remind me when I order to ask for fries instead of chips.”
“Um, sure?.?.?.”
She giggled. “In the UK, chips are the equivalent of American fries. Last time I forgot, and I ended up with a plate of crisps, which are what you call potato chips.”
His eyes widened. “You learn something new every day. I’d always wondered why fish and chips are called fish and chips and not fish and fries.”
