“My stomach doesn’t know what it’s talking about.”
“Don’t tell me you’re on a diet or something.”
Diet?Ha!I’ve been on diets off and on since I was twelve, but it’s beside the point.“For your information, I’m saving my appetite,” I reply.
His brow quirks as if he doesn’t believe me.“For what?”
Mustering as much confidence as I can, I answer, “For a date.”
He pulls back, surprised, though I can’t decide whether or not I’m offended.I mean, I know I’m not the average bombshell most guys like him surround themselves with, but it’s not like the idea of me dating someone is so inconceivable he should be speechless or anything.I’m cute.I’m nice.I’m friendly.I know people.Somepeople.
And then it dawns on him.“Bryan, huh?”he muses.
I still can’t forget how put out he looked at the coffee shop the other day.When Bryan walked up and started talking to me instead of assuming I was with Ford.You know what?Maybe I should be offended.What is it with guys thinking it’s impossible for me to be on a date?
“Am I right?”Ford prods.“Did Bryan officially grow a pair after I left the other day?”
“Mm-hmm.”
His nod is slow as if he’s digesting my words before he goes back to his sandwich-making, though I don’t miss the way he adds two more slices beside the bread he’d already been fixing.
Curious, I ask, “What are you doing?”
“Let me guess.You're going to order a salad, am I right?”
“I haven’t decided yet, why?”
“Because all girls order salads on dates.”He scoffs and slathers mayo onto the second sandwich.“Thinks it’ll attract the guy more or some bullshit.”
“Is there something wrong with a salad?”I challenge.
“Nothing wrong with it, especially if you’re not very hungry and shit.”The sound of the mustard squirting from the bottle acts like an exclamation point before he takes out a few slices of turkey, or at least, it looks like turkey, and adds them to the sandwiches.“But you, my dear June Bug, are hungry.”He grabs a cutting board from one of the cabinets and a knife from a wooden block.“Why don’t you set up your laptop while I finish this?”
My lips bunch on one side, but I do as I’m told, opening my backpack and pulling out my computer, two pencils, a notebook, and a pink eraser.Once everything is in place, a white plate clinks against the table as Ford sets a sandwich in front of me.It’s piled high with meat and cheese and lettuce and tomato.My stomach grumbles again.
With a low and slightly holier-than-thou chuckle, Ford sits down beside me and takes a bite of his own sandwich.“You’re welcome.”
I want to point out that I didn’t thank him, but I know my words will only be wasted on deaf ears.The man’s so…I don’t know.Confident?Cocky?Arrogant?Okay, so those are all basically synonyms, but my point stands.The man doesn’t have a humble bone in his body, and he knows he has me.Iamhungry.Picking up the sandwich, I take a bite.When the explosion of flavor catches me off guard, a moan slips out of me, and I touch my lips, chewing slowly.Okay, so it’s good.Like, really good.
Reading my mind, Ford repeats, “You’re welcome.”
I can feel his stare, but instead of meeting it, I keep my focus on the sandwich.It really is delicious.The only thing that would make it better is Quasimodough’s offspring.Nowthatwould take this sandwich to the next level.
“It’s the mustard,” he explains as if he’s reading my mind.“For a kick-ass sandwich, you gotta use a solid deli mustard.”
“It’s really yummy.”
“Best sandwich you’ve ever had?”he questions.
I hesitate, wiping the corner of my mouth with my thumb.“Close.”
“What would make it better?”
With a smile, I answer, “Quasimodough.”
The guy nearly chokes on his sandwich.“What?”
“The true love of my life,” I answer.
