She liked that he asked. “The Copper Rock?” she offered. The classic American menu offered burgers, sandwiches, and steaks as well as a nice wine list and a large selection of beers. The brick walls and casual atmosphere fostered a relaxed meal.
He shifted into drive and headed into the Brookings historic district. They found a spot on the street. With the sun down, the air held a distinct chill, and she wrapped her sweater more tightly around her body as they stepped onto the sidewalk.
“Hold on,” he said, opened his door again, and reached into the truck’s backseat. He came back out with a fleece-lined jacket and held it open for her.
“We’re twenty feet from the door,” she said with a smile.
“You might get cold inside,” he said, and gave the jacket a gentle shake.
The soft fabric smelled like him, like male skin and sweat and the greening grass of South Dakota’s spring. She felt mildly ridiculous, but slipped her arms into the sleeves anyway. The warmth engulfed her as they crossed the sidewalk. He opened the door and let her walk through first. The host seated them in a quiet booth away from the bar, leaving them with the menus and a promise that a server would be with them shortly.
She opened the menu and shrugged out of the jacket, but draped it across her legs for the warmth as she considered the offerings. Dating conventions suggested she get a salad, but she’d given most of her lunch to Cody. Decision made, she closed her menu.
“That was fast,” he commented.
“I’ve eaten here a couple of times on dates,” she said.
His head came up. “Dates?”
Her mother’s wince flashed in her brain, but she held her head high. “Dates. You find that surprising?”
“No,” he said.
“It’s not surprising I said it.”
“It’s honest,” he said. “No one seriously, though.”
“It didn’t feel right,” she said. “I’m not staying.”
“That wouldn’t matter to most men,” Lucas said easily.
“It matters to me. It wouldn’t be fair for me to date them knowing I’m leaving at the end of the contract. I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.”
“And yet here you are with me.”
Their server showed up with glasses of water. “Are you ready to order?”
“I’d like the pulled pork sandwich, with fries,” Alana said.
“The Copper Rock burger with Swiss,” Lucas said, then flicked a glance at Alana. “Wine?”
“Beer, actually. Goes better with the pork.”
Lucas added a beer to that order. After collecting their menus, the server left, leaving Alana with a choice. If she wanted to go back to Chicago different, she needed to have this conversation.
“Here I am with you,” she said. She couldn’t tell if that amused him, offended him, or didn’t matter at all.
“What keeps you so busy in your off-hours?”
“Good question. I was a research analyst for the Wentworth Foundation.”
“Which is . . .”
“It’s a think tank, a nonprofit economic research foundation focusing on global initiatives,” she said, reciting the tagline from the website.
One eyebrow lifted. “In English?”
“The policy analysts need research to write their papers. I compile policy papers, research, legislation, newspaper and magazine articles, that kind of thing.”
“How did you end up doing that?”
Another little smile. “My stepfather is Peter Harrison Wentworth.”
“The name’s familiar,” he said as the server set their drinks on the table.
“The former senator.”
His eyebrows lifted over the glass of beer. “No kidding.”
“No kidding. He decided not to run for reelection after he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s, but he wanted to stay involved in public policy. His choices were become a lobbyist, which he found personally abhorrent, or do something like this.”
“Why won’t you go back to work there?”
“I could,” she said. “I probably will.”
“Does this have something to do with the mistake?”
“It has everything to do with the mistake,” she said, then changed the subject. “What brought you from Denver to Walkers Ford?”
His expression closed off again. “A mistake of my own.”
“Personal or professional?”
“Both.”
She sipped her beer. “We don’t have to talk about it.”
He shrugged, as if making mistakes was no big deal. “I was on the DEA task force in Denver. My ex-wife wanted a husband who was there, emotionally and physically. When the job in Walkers Ford opened up, we moved here. I thought a slower pace of life would give us a chance to work on our marriage, but all it did was wedge dynamite in the fault lines and blow it apart. She filed for divorce eight months later.”
The frank assessment made her blink. “I’m sorry.”
He swallowed another mouthful of beer. “So was I.”
“How long have you been divorced?”