“I’ve never had fried okra.” Pitiful attempt at giving a lame excuse as I snatch it from her fingers.
I pop it in my mouth, and?—
Once again, I’m a little lost on how I feel.
But I know I need a gulp of water.
Daphne’s smile is half-powered. “Try it with ranch next.”
“Is it supposed to be slimy?”
“Yep.” She drags another tater tot through the melted orange goo that I’ve been assuming is cheese. “You should try one with ranch dressing. Or cheese. Or hot sauce. Or plain ketchup.”
“Why aren’t you eating the okra?”
“I’m having a clandestine love affair with tater tots first.”
Clandestine love affairdoes nothing to cool the blood pumping through my dick.
Did I get struck by lightning?
Is that why everything looks different on this side of the road trip?
Or was shutting off the GPS and sayingforget the planswhat I needed?
Freedom doesn’t come with plans. Maybe that’s what’s making it all click into place.
“If you don’t want more okra, try the fries. Those are my favorite kind of friesever. Shoestrings are unmatched, and I won’t hear otherwise. The grits have to be amazing too. No one does grits like the South does grits.”
“You’ve spent time in the South?”
“Vanderbilt was the first university I was kicked out of.”
She says it so easily, so nonchalantly, that I frown.
No one can honestly feel that carefree about being kicked out of a college, can they?
“It wasn’t a big deal.” She unwraps silverware from a white paper napkin and dips her spoon into the bowl of grits. “Just part of my story to get where I am today. Here. Try these.”
She holds the spoon to my mouth, my dick throws a party, and this time, I lean in and taste the food she’s offering.
Like this is normal.
Like it’s not making me sweat to let Daphne feed me as if we’re—something.
But then the flavor of the grits takes over, and my eyes slide shut, and a rumble of pure happiness takes over.
They’re creamy and buttery and cheesy, and it’s like tasting fast-food fried fish all over again.
My shoulders sag in utter bliss.
If this is what’s hiding in a nondescript diner somewhere in—actually, I don’t know what state we’re in—then what else do I still have to discover?
I blink my eyes open and find Daphne staring at me with darkened eyes, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.
She visibly swallows and drops the spoon, then turns her attention back to the tater tots. “Bowl’s all yours, big guy.”
She doesn’t have to offer twice.
