Her eyes narrow suspiciously. “Is it a scary surprise?”
“No.” I chuckle.
“A dangerous surprise?”
“Only to my self-control,” I mutter.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
She huffs a laugh and sits back. “You’re very cryptic, you know that.”
“And you like it.”
She tries to hide her smile and fails. “Maybe a little,” she admits.
We drive ten minutes out of town to the old highway turnoff where the neon sign of the diner is flickering sporadically against the early-evening sky. The gravel lot is half full of localsgrabbing dinner before a movie, couples on budget dates, and families sharing giant plates of fries.
Her mouth drops open while she stares out the window. “Oh my God.”
“You approve?” I ask.
“You’re taking me to The Chuck Wagon?”
“Mhmm.”
Her eyes shine as she grins at me. “This place was my favorite growing up. My dad used to take me here every Friday after football games.”
“I remember.”
“You do?” Her brow wrinkles and she tilts her head.
I park near the front entrance and turn off the engine before looking at her. “You always ordered the chicken strip basket with onion rings and a cookies-and-cream shake.”
“How… how did you know that?” She turns in her seat to face me.
“While you and most everyone else in Maple Ridge were at the stadium, I came here for a burger and a quiet place to sketch. Most of the time, I was still here when you came in with your dad. I always sat at the end of the counter, but I guess you never noticed me.”
Her shoulders slump and the corners of her mouth turn down. “I’m sorry, Oliver. I should’ve paid better attention.”
“Don’t sweat it, Princess. I didn’t exactly want to be seen. Besides, I can’t complain when I had such a great view.” I give her a wink and her expression brightens.
“I still can’t believe you remember my order, though.”
“Believe it. I remember everything.” And I do meaneverything, not that I’ll tell her that.
I remember her playful laugh and that fitted cheerleading uniform that used to drive me insane. The sticker of a cartoon cat she had on her cell phone case and her bubbly handwriting inher pink spiral notebook. The way she folded the corners of her books instead of using a bookmark.
I remember everything about Jenna Howard. I couldn’t forget her if I tried.
“C’mon, let’s go inside.”
The Chuck Wagonlooks exactly the same as it did a decade ago: red vinyl booths, laminated menus, fairy lights someone put up years ago and never took down.
Jenna slides into a booth, and I follow behind her, my muscular thigh resting against hers. She turns to me with a lifted eyebrow and an amused smile. “You’re sitting beside me?”
“Yes.”
