A diner? When he’s wearing a watch worth thousands of dollars? The juxtaposition makes me laugh. “Sounds good to me.”
We ride in relative silence, both content to listen to the radio. A few flurries fall from the sky, but it’s not enough to create issues for Luke driving. He taps his fingers against the wheel, and the longer we drive, the more fidgety he gets.
“Regretting inviting me out?” I ask as we pull up to a red light.
He watches my reaction as he says, “I should be. But no.”
Butterflies explode in my stomach. “Good.” I blush.
“Regretting saying yes?”
“I should be, but no,” I repeat.
His eyes flick back and forth between mine before he turns them back on the road. “Good.”
The diner is cute.Red vinyl booths, retro decorations covering every inch of the walls, and more neon signs than actual lighting illuminate the space. Our booth is in the back corner near the jukebox, and only a few people are scattered around the rest of the place.
Luke claims they have the best burgers, so I let him order for the both of us.
Our waitress approaches with drinks in hand. “Regular,” she says, sliding a glass in front of Luke. “And a diet.” She places one in front of me. “Food will be up shortly.”
“Thank you,” I say. Luke hands me a straw, and I rip the paper off of it. “I’m shocked you drink regular Coke.”
He frowns at me. “Why is that surprising? Don’t a lot of people drink Coke?”
“Yes, but you were a professional athlete. I would’ve thought you’d be a little more health conscious.”
“You’re drinking soda, too.”
I take a sip and moan at the crisp carbonation. “Yes, but it’s diet.”
He balks. “That’s literally just chemicals. It doesn’t make it any better.”
“Yes it does.”
“No it doesn’t. You can pry the Coke out of my dead hands.”
“I bet you can’t even taste the difference.”
“There’s a huge difference.”
I slide my glass across the table to him. “Try it.”
His mouth twists. “No. It’s disgusting.”
“How would you know?”
“Because I just do.”
“Try it. Just one little sip,” I coax. “Please?”
He grumbles something under his breath but leans forward on his elbows and takes my straw into his mouth. His lips wrap around it, and something about him using my straw instead of taking a sip out of the side of the cup or using his own feels oddly…intimate. It feels like something a couple would do.
He takes the smallest sip, barely getting even a few drops, before he shakes his head in disgust and pushes it back across the table to me. “I was right. Chemicals.”
“Whatever,” I laugh. “I doubt you even could taste it off that pathetic sip.”
“I could taste enough,” he argues.
