But my traitorous body decides for me. I march over to him and grab his arm before he can windup, forcing myself to ignore the way his damp hair curls around his temples and the wayhis eyelashes are heavy with moisture, framing eyes that are too busy searching to be tired.
“Come on,” I tell him.
“Come on, what?”
“Not what—where,” I say, my voice sounding steadier than I feel. The heat from his skin is radiating into my palm, a reminder that I’m still holding him, and he’s still straining against me. I need this tension to lessen. Need to not be looking at the way his chest is heaving. Need—need?—
“I need a milkshake,” I blurt.
His eyes tighten and his chest gives one, two more heaves before he cocks his head. His brow clears.
“A milkshake?”
“Yup.” I drop his arm just in time to save my fingers from memorizing the feeling. “And you’re buying.”
CHAPTER SIX
Lucas
Scottie insists on driving, and because Logan drove us today and I was planning to jog home, I don’t fight her.
Much.
“Wow,Little Miss Exit Strategywants to drive? Color me shocked.”
“What isthatsupposed to mean?” she asks, turning her head fully to look at me as she pulls out of the stadium parking lot.
I don’t answer. I’m not sure what I meant, to be honest. All I know is I would have pitched till my arm fell off if she hadn’t shown up. “Eyes on the road, Quinn.”
“Mouth shut, Fischer,” she mutters. The heater in her car is blasting, and I’m not too Midwest to appreciate that. I took a cold shower—for therapeutic purposes—but my hair’s still damp, and my performance hoodie is the thin, breathable kind designed to wick sweat, not retain heat. I’m currently a walking ice pack.
The drive is quiet—tight in a way that has nothing to do with the cold. By the time she pulls into the diner parking lot, I’m not sure if I’m warmer or just numb.
The Night Crawler is an homage to the town’s name, with its cracked vinyl booths, driftwood accents, and enough taxidermied fish to fill a Bass Pro Shop. Sometimes I wonder if the older townsfolk feel duty bound to remind the younger generation that Mullet Ridge was named after the fish, not the hairstyle.
We sit across from each other in a booth, Scottie ramrod straight, me with my elbows on the table. I scan the menu, ignoring the way her posture makes her look like the dictator of a small country who took a wrong turn into a truck stop.
“What’s good?” I ask.
“The milkshake.”
“Yeah, but what flavors?”
“I’m not telling you what to order.”
“I’m not asking you to tell me what to order,” I say, my eyes scanning classic flavors like chocolate and strawberry and local favorites like apple pie, black cherry, and peach. An asterisk tells me all the fruit is locally sourced from the famous Sugar Maple Farms. “I’m asking what’s good.”
“I don’t know what you like.”
I’m not an overly heroic kind of guy, but not staring at the gorgeous woman across from me with DUH flashing on my forehead feels pretty friggin heroic.
I close the menu, sling my arm across the back of the booth, and sprawl out, propping my ankle over my opposite knee. I watch her eyes track the movement, but I can’t imagine why they do.
“Do you know what you want?” she asks.
I shrug. “Do you?”
Her brow tugs together for only a moment, and I find I’m too tired to hold myself together the way I should.
