I blink. “Food trucks?”
“Yeah, there’s a whole street of them between stadiums. Cheap. Greasy. Probably questionable hygiene ratings.”
That sounds… manageable.
Normal.
Safe.
He just asked me out.
Shepherd Haynes.
The famous professional football player.
He wants to go out…with me.
I’m not sure why.
I think he has no idea what he’s getting himself into.
Maybe he’s crazy.
“No pressure,” he says quickly. “If you’re tired, or busy, or don’t want to hang out with a guy who gets paid to play tag?—”
“Stop saying that,” I tell him, trying not to laugh at my own teasing comments.
Or maybe he’s just a normal guy who happens to play football.
I can’t imagine life would be that good to me, but if the guy wants to take me out to eat at a food truck, I suppose I could give him that. He did come to see me three times, after all.
He seems nice.
And funny. So if nothing else, I’m grateful Shepherd Haynes has a sense of humor. If he really means no pressure, then what’s the harm in a taco or corndog? I can just walk home from there.
I grab a clean glass and pour another beer from the tap. “First of all, for the record, there is no boyfriend or any other man or woman that I know about planning to kick your ass tonight.” I whisper the next part, “So, I think you’re safe.”
“Phew.” He glides his hand across his forehead. “Thought I was a goner for a second there.”
“And secondly…” I slide the beer to Shepherd before he’s finished the first one. “It’ll take me a few minutes to clean up and cash out.”
He nods once, keeping it cool even though something about him looks different now.
Happier.
Excited even.
“Is that a yes, Shepherd, I’d really love to eat greasy questionable food with you?” he asks.
“I mean, I guess…if you don’t mind waiting.”
He nods with a smile. “Happy to wait.”
“You don’t have to though.”
“I know, but someone left this beer on the counter and I don’t like to be wasteful.”
“Very conscientious of you.”
