“Yes, I like food. And I played football in college, and I’ve been following the Vikings for almost twenty years, so…also yes.”
Dexter smiled, one of those extra-brilliant smiles that could light up the night. “What position did you play?”
“Defensive tackle.”
“That’s awesome.”
I snorted. “Is it?”
He opened the driver’s side door and shot a playful grimace at me. “Don’t be a dick.”
I pointed at my chest in dismay, then shook my bags of goodies. “Good-bye, Dexter. I have donuts to eat.”
“Lunch then. Log Cabin at noon.”
A few hours later, I sat in a red vinyl booth across from Dexter. I ordered a burger with fries; he ordered pancakes. Blueberry pancakes. Who ordered blueberry pancakes for lunch?
“Me. I love pancakes.”
“Hmph.What are we supposed to talk about?” I shot a wary glance at our waitress, a raven-haired pixie in her twenties with doe eyes, tattooed arms, and scarlet lips. Nicole did her best not to ogle, but I could tell we confused her. “Also…everyone is staring.”
Dexter flattened butter atop his stack of pancakes and reached for the syrup, stealing a quick peek at Nicole just as she moved on to another table. “That can’t be helped. Small-town ways. Told you it would be easier if you played flag football. We can talk about anything. You go first.”
I narrowed my eyes in response and chomped into my burger. We ate in silence for a minute or two. It was weird and uncomfortable, and I hated that I couldn’t help noticing his dimples and that his wind-tousled hair made him look like a model. Not good.
Think of something, Viggo.
“How many kids do you want to have?”
Dexter’s fork hovered over his plate for a beat. “Two. I mean…that’s the dream. You?”
“That’s not my dream,” I replied.
“Whatisyour dream?”
“To make it through this lunch.”
Dexter barked a laugh. “Ouch. How’s your burger?”
“Pretty good. I won’t ask about the pancakes. I can tell you like them.”
“Love ’em! Pancakes are my favorite. One of my faves, anyway.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re amazing! A light, fluffy, sweet something with butter and syrup is pure happiness. I love them with fruit, chocolate chips, and…”
Dexter’s eyes twinkled as he listed the many virtues of pancakes.
Lunch was easy after that.
It was even…fun.
He was a football fan and he had big opinions about the upcoming NFL draft—who needed a new quarterback, who should have retired, and coaching scandals. I forgot to be annoyed or nervous, and I even forgot about our curious audience.
A few days later, we had coffee at a bistro table in front of Rise and Grind. By accident. We happened to notice each other in line, and instead of ignoring Dexter like I would have before Freya signed on to be his surrogate, I said hello.
He seemed happy to see me. He squeezed my elbow in greeting and dropped his hand, letting our fingers brush. That part was alarming. My heart raced at the slight contact and for the briefest moment, I could have sworn he’d done it on purpose. All of it—smiling, touching, laughing at my dumb jokes.
