“That wasperfect. Give me another,” I say, cracking a smile.
“Ask nicely.”
I grin, unable to pass up the softball he just floated out to me. “Yes, Omar. Please. Pleasegive it to me.”
He hangs his head again, that brilliant smile still playing on his lips. “One of these days I’m going to learn to stop walking into the obvious ones.”
“But hopefully not today.”
I give him my brightest smile, and he puts together another perfect bite on his fork, this time slipping it into my mouth.
Okay, the salad is actually really fucking good, and don’t tell anyone, but all the sugar was making my head spin. I do eat a bit of sugar here and there throughout the week, but never quite so much at once, and it appears my body isn’t too forgiving of the kid in a candy store approach to on-the-road eating.
“Fine. I probably should’ve gotten something that approached real food back at the Buc-ee’s. You gonna eat any more of that?” I ask, hungry for more than just the salad.
“Nope, it’s yours. How do you want to eat it?”
I look at him with the one raised eyebrow, and he rolls his eyes. “Don’t get any ideas.”
“I never get any ideas when somebody asks to eat my tossed salad. Now, if someone were to let me toss their salad for them…”
“Hmph. You’re a little dirty, Omar. I’m impressed.”
After that, he lines up a series of perfect bites, and I’m not sure if I’ve ever had a better salad in my life. All due respect to Buc-ee’s, but I’m pretty sure it has nothing to do with the ingredients.
A cherry tomato misses my mouth and leaves a trail of vinaigrette from my jaw to my lap. Without missing a beat, Omar plucks the tomato from my crotch and pops it into his mouth while grabbing a napkin and wiping the oil mixture from my T-shirt.
“I’ve got a little bit of a mess in my lap, too,” I say, leering at him, pushing the boundary to see where he’s at.
“You’re on your own,” he deadpans, running a finger along the edge of my beard and lip to catch the bit of oil dripping there. My breath catches at the sensation of his warm fingers so close to my lips.
He copies my smirk and tosses a couple of napkins on my crotch. “Be as thorough as you like, but try not to create a bigger mess.”
Was thatflirting?
I wipe off my jeans but take his advice and keep it light. He grabs the dirty napkins from me, tosses them in the clamshell box, and wraps it all up in a plastic bag, which he sets carefully in his back seat.
“Are you always so neat? Do you ever have an off day and leave a dirty cup on the counter?”
He shudders. “Why would I want a dirty cup on the counter? It takes no energy to put it into the dishwasher.”
“I don’t know.” I shrug, chancing a look in his direction. “Maybe it’s about not having to be perfect all the time.”
“If I wanted to prove I wasn’t perfect all the time, that’d be pretty easy. Case in point, you seem to know how to get under my skin,” he responds, meeting my eyes for a moment.
“If you didn’t make it so fun, I would stop doing it.”
He spares me another sideways glance. “If I knew how to get you to stop enjoying yourself at my expense, I would’ve done it a long time ago.”
I place my hand on my chest and bite back a smile. “I thought you enjoyed our witty repartee.”
“I’m sorry, maybe my English is bad—did you actually call our interactions witty repartee?”
“Riiight. Your English is better than mine. And hell, even if you were dumb as a box of rocks, any repartee between us would be witty by the simple fact that one of us fits the bill.”
The half-smile returns to his mouth. “Are you actually calling me dumb?”
“No. Pay attention. I said that if you were dumb it would still be witty repartee because I am witty. You’re not exactly witty, but you are… Well, you’re not dumb. And that counts for something.”
