My stomach chooses that moment to rumble loudly. The sound is hard to miss in the quiet corner of the library.
Jaxon grins. “I’ll take that as a yes. What do you like? My treat.”
Perhaps I should be relieved that he’s offered to pay, but my wounded pride won’t let me. I don't want to owe him anything. I know better than anyone that kindness always comes at a price. Still, I’m not exactly in a position to turn down food, and I doubt Jaxon is going to take no for an answer.
I let out a resigned sigh. “Surprise me.”
Jaxon returns a half hour later, holding a brown paper bag and a drink carrier with way too many drinks for two people. “I hope you like Catalano’s.”
“Never been, but I’m willing to try anything once.”
Something heated flashes in his gaze. “Good to know.”
“Did you invite someone else?”
“What?”
“The drinks.”
“Oh. That. No, I just wasn’t sure what you liked, so I got a few different options.”
If he keeps this up, I’m going to end up having Jaxon for lunch.
“Is there somewhere I can set this down?” he asks.
“Right. Sorry. Follow me.”
I lead Jaxon toward the break room, stopping briefly to let Janet know I’m taking my lunch break. She heads to the desk while Jaxon and I settle into two chairs at the small round table.
“I got sweet tea, lemonade, a bottle of water, or soda. Take whatever you want.”
There are few things in life that trip me up: accepting help when it’s offered, the word Worcestershire, visiting new placeswhen I don’t know what the parking situation is like, and making decisions.
I bite down on my bottom lip. “What do you like?”
“Pick two, and I’ll have whatever’s left over,” he says, reaching into the paper bag. “I got my usual, but if you don’t like it, I have a backup plan.”
I grab the bottle of water and the lemonade and set them in front of me.
If the scent wafting from the bag is anything to go by, I’m going to devour whatever it is. He pulls out two brown takeout containers and sets them on the table.
Jaxon’s ‘usual,’ it turns out, is possibly the fanciest grilled cheese I’ve ever eaten. It’s made with fresh sourdough bread buttered and toasted to perfection, what appears to be three different cheeses, a side of homemade potato chips, and a pickle. Sure beats the questionable chicken salad sandwich with the bright yellow discount sticker on the container waiting for me in the mini fridge.
Before I touch the sandwich, I pluck the juiciest-looking pickle spear out of the container and take a bite.
“Well?” Jaxon asks. “How is it?”
“Best pickle I've ever had.” I cover my mouth as I speak around the bite.
He stabs the straw into one of the cups. “And the sandwich?”
“Screw the sandwich, I could eat a whole jar of these.” I shove the last bite between my lips and release a quiet, contented hum.
Jaxon laughs. “Here. You can have mine, too. I don’t like pickles.” He picks it up with a toothpick and sets it in my container.
I cover my mouth and say a quiet thank you.
“How is it that you live and work in Willow Valley and haven’t tried the best restaurant in town?” he asks.
