“No, that’s all I want. Oh, and a diet soda.”
Shaking his head, he crosses his arms highlighting his broad chest. “You need protein.”
No, I really don’t. “No, Luke—”
“Fine,” he huffs. “Fried pickles—” He mumbles something I can’t quite hear. “—coming right up.”
Why do I have a feeling I’m getting more than the pickles?
* * *
“Here you go.”Luke places a basket of deep-fried pickles onto the bar. He even includes the side of ranch dressing that’s an absolute necessity. Next to that he places the biggest burger I’ve ever seen. “Protein.”
I should be angry that he’s forcing food on me, but I can’t be. Instead, I look up and laugh. “I’ll never be able to eat all that.” I point down to what looks to be a triple-stacked burger. The truth is, I don’t care for stacked meat. I know, it’s a weird thing to dislike, but it is what it is. I lift the bun and see there’s bacon too. Ick.More stacked meat.
I should just tell him.
I attempt a sympathetic look because he’s about to get his feelings hurt. I can tell. “Um, I don’t like it when meat is stacked on top of meat.”
“Huh?” He leans closer to me. “What’d you say?”
Feeling a little self-conscious, I repeat, “I don’t care for stacked meat.”
“Stacked meat?” Luke looks seriously confused.
“You know.” I lift the top off the burger again. “Like here.” I point to the bacon. “Bacon on top of beef on top of more beef on top of….”
“More beef,” he says, finishing my thought.
“Yeah.”
“No stacked meat. Got it.” Luke grabs the basket, pulls out the trash can, and tosses the contents inside.
“Luke!” I practically shout. “That’s such a waste.”
“You don’t like stacked shit. I got rid of it.” He stomps back to the kitchen, and I don’t see him again for ten minutes. When he returns, he’s got another basket in his hand. Plopping it down in front of me, he snaps, “Here.”
I look down at another, much smaller burger. Lifting the bun, I see one patty and yellow cheese on top. On the side? Lettuce, tomato, and pickles. “Better?”
“Luke….”
“What’s wrong with that one?” He points at the cheeseburger.
I don’t dare say a word. “Nothing.” I smile. “Ketchup?”
“Sure.” He steps back through the kitchen doors and in moments, he’s back with every condiment possible.
“Thanks.” I smile up at him as I squirt ketchup on the cheeseburger I didn’t want, add the lettuce and other sides, put the bun back on, and then lift it and bite. “Mm,” I say honestly. Chewing, I nod a couple of times. My mouth is full, but I think he’s waiting for something from me. “Good.” And it is. It’s really good. So good, I eat the entire thing. I even get through half the fried pickles.
Finishing up, I pull out my wallet. “How much—”
“No,” he snaps. “I invited you here to eat dinner.”
“Oh.” I don’t dare argue with the man. He’s quite indignant when you disagree with him. Instead, I smile up at him. “Thank you.”
I watch his shoulders relax. “Good. You’re welcome.”
As I get ready to leave, I thank him again. When his back is turned, I set a ten-dollar bill down beneath my glass. What? It’s a tip. “See you… uh… later.”
