Trent turned to me and winked. “Only the best for you, baby.”
Snickering, I slid into the faux-leather booth beside him, pushing right up against his side. He draped his arm around my shoulders and kicked his feet onto the seat on the other side of the table.
“Remember when you used to sit across from me?” he said, pointing with the hand draped over my chest.
“That’s too far now,” I replied, settling deeper into him.
“It was too far then too.”
I laid my head on his shoulder, both of us ignoring the menu. We’d been here so many times over the years that I could probably recite it in my sleep.
A waitress dressed in jeans, a red T-shirt, and a black waist apron strode down the aisle between booths and slid a large red basket lined with checkered paper loaded down with golden fries in front of us.
A sound of appreciation ripped right out of me as I straightened and dug in. The hot fry was crisp on the outside and softer inside with the salt melting on my tongue with a zing.
Sogood. “Have I died and gone to heaven?” I wondered and shoved another three in my mouth.
She laughed and shook her head. “Aren’t you going to share?”
“No. I need ketchup, frat boy.”
“Who says romance is dead?” Trent mused, already dumping a puddle of the good stuff into the basket.
“You boys having your usual?” the waitress asked.
“That would be great,” T replied while I nodded around a mouthful.
She returned a few moments later with two glasses with tiny bubbles fizzing to the surface and crowding the ice. What was left of the foamy head crackled, condensation already forming on the outside, hinting at the chill within.
I abandoned my fries long enough to grab a straw, rip the paper off the end, and blow the rest of it at my husband. Laughter shook his body, and he plucked it off his chest to tie a knot in the center and drop it on the table beside my fries.
Ah, good times.
Satisfied with our little tradition, I grabbed another golden stick of happiness, swirled it in ketchup, and held it out to my guy.
He arched an eyebrow. “You’re sharing?”
“It’s getting cold.”
The corner of his mouth lifted, and he leaned forward, lips parting.
I yanked it back and shoved the entire thing in my mouth. “Too slow.”
“Greedy bastard,” he mused fondly.
Salty fingers smudged his jeans when I laid my palm on his thigh and squeezed. “I am,” I concurred quietly. “Greedy for all the things I love most.”
“That include me?”
“Oh, you’re at the top of the list.”
My skin prickled when his lips brushed my ear, and the hair on the back of my neck stood when he whispered, “That mean you’re going to eat me later too?”
“I’ve always got room for you.”
“Order’s up!” Our waitress returned carrying two plates piled with food. A cheeseburger and fries for me—yes, more fries—and a Reuben on rye with fries for T.
“This looks great. Thank you,” T said, tugging his plate closer.
