“It locks automatically.”
“Let’s roll. What are you in the mood for?”
“I don’t want to go to the Union. How about the salad place down on Main?”
“Never been…let’s go.”
She wanted salad, I was game.
“They have other stuff. Sandwiches, wraps, really good fries.”
“It’s sounding better already.”
We walked next to each other down the stairs, my hand itching to catch hers, but I didn’t know the protocol.
Outside, she fished a pair of sunglasses out of her purse and looked up at the sun.
“Ahh, feels good.”
I swallowed a moan. Her smooth skin, outstretched neck, lean legs, shiny hair flowing down her back—she was a vision.
“I take it you don’t like the snow?”
“Not really.”
We walked at a steady pace through the remainder of the quad and down the street to the small town surrounding campus. Trees littered the edge of the sidewalk, and in the distance, a lawn mower rumbled.
“On your left.” A guy on an electric bike came whizzing by, with zero courtesy or control.
“Watch it, dude,” I called and earned myself a girlie punch in the arm.
“What?” I put on my puppy eyes.
“Could’ve been a student of mine.”
“I don’t care. He was riding like an ass. Almost hurt you.”
“I can take care of myself.” She nudged her shoulder into mine. “But thanks. It’s been a while since anyone’s even tried to look out for me.”
This hurt me in ways I couldn’t explain. I was a fixer, and Claire needing fixing. She was too fierce to admit it, but I knew.
“Well, consider that over. It’ll be a while before someone doesn’t look out for you.”
At the intersection, we crossed, and Claire pointed. “Over there.”
It was a froufrou kind of place, even for a small college town like this, but I wasn’t going to say no.
Hardwood floors with dark mahogany wood along the walls, black and white tiled counters, and salad makers wearing faux tuxedo shirts behind the counter.
“Hi, welcome to Penguin’s. First time?”
“Not for me,” Claire told the young woman behind the counter, who had silver glitter on her eyes and a million bangle bracelets up her arms. The kind of girl I was expected to go after—younger, sillier, less baggage—but who did zilch for me.
“Guilty.” I waved.
“Okay, well, we have a create-your-own salad bar, and then on the wall, our sandwiches and soups are listed.”
“You promised fries.” I turned to give Claire the stink-eye.
