“Meatloaf day is like a holiday in Beauville.”
“As it should be.” He nodded, all serious.
When he relaxed, he appeared more approachable. I wouldn’t go as far as calling him friendly, but I didn’t expect the famous superstar to accept lunch at a local diner, let alone enjoyit and praise it. Every time I’d met him before, he seemed aloof and pissed off by default.
But now that I thought of it, I hadn’t actually spoken more than a few sentences to him before.
He was frowning at me, and I realized I’d been staring.
Where were we? Aha. Food. That was an easy topic.
“You might want to try Rudi’s honey-glazed ribs next time too.”
“Are you advertising your establishment, Jordan? Under the nose of the competition, no less.”
“Bert would agree with me about the ribs. And I’m just telling you more things you could appreciate about Beauville.”
“Oh, I do appreciate it.”
“Really?” I couldn’t keep the suspicion from my voice.
He spread his arms. “I can go out for a walk without being mobbed in the street. I visited a pub and a diner, and nobody asked for an autograph. I’m starting to think people here don’t find me all that special.”
He said it lightly, and his lips curved up at the corners. Tiny tendrils of his sweet omega scent made it to my nose, but when I breathed in, trying to get a good whiff, I only got the smell of gravy and the familiar alpha lumberjack stink I was used to from the pub.
“Miss the attention, Mr. Riley?”
“Not even a little bit. Do I sound ungrateful?” he asked as if he genuinely cared about what I thought.
“I wouldn’t know.”
He squinted at me. “You do know. You have opinions about everything and everyone, but you don’t say them. Why is that?”
Whoa. That was direct for small talk at lunch. “Who am I to judge people?” I replied noncommittally.
But Laurel didn’t give up. “You judge me.”
“I do not,” I replied on automatic.
“Yes, you do. At the pub last night. And today. I’m starting to think you don’t particularly like me.”
He jerked his chin forward, all determined, but I could see the small cracks in his facade. He really wasn’t doing well, was he? His clear skin was pale, and he had purplish circles under his eyes. Sharp brackets framed his otherwise plush lips. Laurel was a beautiful man, the entire country would agree, but he was drained and somehow stretched thin.
The pang of melancholy surprised me. This guy had everything. Why should I feel sorry for him? Yet, here I was, thinking he might need a hug and a foot massage.
“I did expect you to act less relaxed about certain things,” I admitted.
He grinned, a spark of mischief lighting up his tired face. “You think I’m full of myself.”
“No.”
“Spoiled?”
“Maybe,” I hedged. “Less than I thought.”
He shook his head, looking out through the window. “See. You are judging me.” He was still smiling, but it looked sad. “But that’s fine, you’re entitled. I know I can be an asshole.”
I had no idea what to say to that. Did he expect me to lie and say he seemed like a total sweetheart?
