Fuzzy black spots of rage dance before my eyes, and I squeeze my rolled silverware in my hands to tamp down any verbal reaction. Cressida told me to work with this guy, so I have no choice but to find a way to tolerate him.
This is your last chance, Jensen. Don’t screw this up.
That said, I have a feeling Sally wouldn’t put up with this sitting down.
“Hey, Sheila?” I call, not taking my eyes off Grayson until our waitress appears beside our booth, her gaze darting between us with the kind of delight I used to see in my grandmother when she watched her soaps. “Could I get some bacon bits for that salad?”
“Absolutely, hon,” Sheila says. “I’ll go tell them to throw some on.”
“A lot. Please.”
Grayson leans back against the booth, eyebrows down for the moment. “Very mature.”
“Very delicious, you mean.”
It’s not terribly busy in the diner, so it seems like only a minute later, Sheila is back with our food. She sets the salad—generously covered in bacon bits—down in front of me and the grilled chicken sandwich in front of Grayson. “Enjoy,” she says.
“So no bacon, but it’s fine to eat chicken?” I ask, picking up my fork.
“Have you met a chicken? They are vicious, vicious birds.”
“I saw a video of a chicken purring because it was swaddled after a bath,” I say. I stab a chunk of lettuce with my fork, making sure to get some bacon bits, and take a bite.
Nope. Even with the bacon bits, you just can’t make your mouth believe a salad is the same as a BLT sandwich. And it’s really just a deconstructed BLT! There’s lettuce, there’s tomato, there’s croutons, and there’s bacon crumbles.
And yet…it’s a mouthful of sadness.
“Individual chickens do not represent chickens as a whole. They’re mean.” He bites into his sandwich, chewing slowly.
“Excuse me if I don’t agree with you on the qualities of various barnyard animals.” I poke around in my salad looking for one of the handful of cherry tomatoes. “Although I suppose you do have more experience in that arena than I do.”
“Cute.” He takes another bite, and I almost wish he chewed with his mouth open so I could think to myself, “Ew, he’s gross.” But he keeps his mouth charmingly, annoyingly closed. “I’ve never heard that before.”
He’s wearing a dark blue T-shirt that clings to what I have to imagine is an incredibly muscular chest. It’s pretty much at eye level for me, so I’m forced to either stare at his pecs or turn my head to look out the window.
Which I’m going to do.
Any second now.
“How’s your salad?” he asks, finishing off his sandwich.
“So much better with the bacon,” I say. “Like, super amazing.”
He wipes his mouth with his napkin and signals to Sheila. “That’s vegan, just so you know.”
I stop with my fork halfway to my mouth. “It’s bacon.”
“It’s baconbits. And while there are a handful of brands that use actual bacon, most of them are vegan.” He gestures at my bowl. “Judging by the color, you definitely have vegan bacon bits.”
He grins, and my heart sinks.
Great. The man has a dimple when he smiles. Of course he would.
Jensen, nobody cares what you think about his goddess-damned dimple.
Sheila arrives, and Grayson hands her a twenty-dollar bill. “Keep the change,” he says. Then, sliding out of the booth, he says to me, “We’re meeting with that consultant at two today. Don’t be late.”
With a dimple-laced smile at our waitress, he’s gone, the bells above the door ringing merrily as he walks out.
