Even the way George eats is attractive. The tensing of his jaw muscles as he chews. The way he drags a thumb across his lower lip to brush away stray crumbs.
I lick my own lips in an unconscious response.
“Are you still hungry?” His deep voice jerks me out of my fixation, and I swipe at my mouth to make sure I’m not drooling.
Am I still hungry? Well, depends on if you’re talking about food or something else.
“That’s a lot of fries you have,” I blurt before I ask him if he’s on the menu.
George eyes my empty plate, one brow arching when he realizes I’ve already polished off my hash browns. A smirk plucks at his lips, and he nudges his food toward me. “Have a few.”
Just for something to do, I reach across the table and grab a handful of fries. But I can’t dump them on my plate because suddenly my arm is not my own.
George has wrapped his strong fingers around my wrist, halting my retreat.
“I said a few.” His second brow raises. “In what world is that a few?”
To be fair, I’d panicked and scooped up most of what was left. But admitting that feels like I’d be admitting I’m rattled by him.
Not happening.
“Sorry, Bunsen,” I snark back. “You should have been more specific.” I tug on my wrist.
He doesn’t let go. “Drop them.”
“No way. They were a gift. I never return gifts.”
George tries to keep his face stern, but I swear he’s biting back a laugh. “If you want this many fries, then you should order some.”
“Or, hear me out.” I push my plate to the side and lean forward. “I can eat the fries that I already own.”
“You do not own them,” he growls through a now-obvious smile.
“We’ll see about that.” I chomp down on one that’s sticking out of my fist. “Mmm. Tastes like deep-fried possession.”
“Don’t you dare eat another one.”
“Like this one?” More salty goodness hits my tongue, and for some reason, these stolen french fries are the best I’ve ever had in my life.
“This is your last chance.” His voice is hard, but his eyes are soft. “Return the hostages.”
“But this hostage looks delicious—hey!” My forehead meets a wall when I go in for another bite, and I realize George is using his free hand to hold me away while he dives in to snap up the fries protruding from my fist. “Stop it, you fiend!”
I try to mimic his move but have a harder time halting his giant head.
While he aggressively chews, George finally lets out a roll of chuckles. The sound of his laughter pricks across my nerve endings, and my wrist informs me that his rough thumb is stroking along my fluttering pulse.
Are we flirting? Am I flirting with George Bunsen?
A crack of thunder shocks me out of my mental tangle. George and I both glance out the window in time to spy raindrops pattering against the glass.
“Shit,” he mutters, dropping my hand and abandoning his food topull his phone from his back pocket. He sets the device flat on the table so I can watch him navigate to a weather app and pull up the radar. A red cloud of heavy precipitation creeps toward our location.
The fries fall from my slack fingers as I consider the implications of this weather system.
“Wait. Are we stuck here?”
George’s lips firm into a thin line, which is all the answer I need.
