Cormac dished up some of the flaky fish and settled it next to the vegetables he’d already put on my plate. “Definitely burning some calories.”
“Not as many as you.”
“Few people in the world push themselves physically like I do,” he said. “I like to work out—keeps me from being antsy.”
He piled his own plate high.
“Are you typically antsy?”
“I have a hard time settling my mind. Movement helps me focus both my body and my thoughts.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re antsy, just that you use your body to feel your thoughts and emotions.”
He nodded thoughtfully as he carried the plates to the table and pulled out a chair, gesturing for me to sit.
“Thanks.” I settled into the seat.
“That’s an interesting concept,” Cormac said, pulling the paper napkin dispenser closer and offering me one before taking another for himself.
I met his gaze. The brown in his eyes was luscious, like hot cocoa. I adored cocoa—chocolate in all its forms. “Because it’s not the typical statement about ADHD?”
“Yeah.”
He picked up his utensils and cut into his fish, so I did the same. “Mmm... This is so good,” I exclaimed, placing my hand in front of my mouth. I blushed, embarrassed at my poor manners, butdamn. I hadn’t known boring old whitefish could be so tasty.
“I have a talented chef.”
I shook my head. Once I’d swallowed, I said, “Tell me about this chef.”
“She comes in twice a week and makes meals based on what the team nutritionist recommends.”
I set my utensils down and cupped my chin in my palm. “And that’s your normal?”
“It is.” He took another bite.
I liked his economical, precise movements. “I cook my boring recipes like meatloaf, hoping I can stretch it another day so I can add another fifty bucks to my student loans—that’s normal.”
“For you.”
“For most of the world.”
“I’m not most people,” he said.
“Noted.”
He pointed his knife at me. “You going to let it get cold?”
“No.”
We ate, moving from one topic to another.
“Who doesn’t like NWA or Nirvana?” Cormac asked a little way into our music discussion, clearly affronted.
“This girl,” I said, laughing. “I grew up on the classics: Tammy Wynette, Merle Haggard. I like good ol’ country.”
Cormac shook his head, grumbling. He finished his meal and leaned back in his chair, hands over his flat tummy. “That may be a deal breaker.”
I aligned the silverware on my plate. “That’s the end? Me liking country music?”
