“Maybe just one more basket.”
I need something to do with my hands other than grab this man by his shirt, something to do with my mouth so it doesn’t get any ideas.
It would be so easy to stop fighting this.
I don’t know where that thought came from, but I serve it up an eviction notice, effective immediately. Begone, ye trespasser!
Pat signals a waiter. We place our orders as another server brings fresh chips and salsa. Then, it’s just me, Pat, and the chips again. Their crunch is carrying the conversation.
“So, your family bought Sheet Cake, huh?” I ask.
Pat gives me a wry grin. “Did I not mention that the other day?”
“You did not.”
“It was Tank’s idea. A family project of sorts. He roped me into it—which wasn’t hard when I found out which town he bought. Now, we’re just trying to get my brothers on board. What are the odds, right? My dad happens to buy your town.”
“Don’t tell me you think it’s a sign,” I say.
“I don’t think it’s not a sign. And now, thanks to this very stylish ankle monitor, I’ll be here for the foreseeable future.”
I heard about that hours ago from Winnie who heard from Chevy. Her brother clearly did not tell her all the details, like the fact he gave Pat my number and drove him to meet me for dinner.
“Thank you for agreeing to have dinner with me,” Pat says.
“What can I say? I'm a sucker for Tex-Mex.”
“I remember. You could almost out-eat me. But only in tacos. Remember that time we tried the—”
“Taco buffet,” we say in unison.
I don’t even try to hold back the goofy grin on my face. It feels slightly painful, like the muscles in my face aren’t used to making such happy expressions. “I shouldn’t have tried to keep up with you, plate for plate, taco for taco.”
Pat chuckles. “It wasn’t your best idea.”
“One of my worst. But I didn’t throw up!”
“No—you just had to lie very, very still on the couch for a few hours. And if I so much as touched you with a pinky finger, you screamed.”
“You just couldn’t keep your hands off me.”
“No,” he says, his eyes darkening. “I couldn’t.”
The heat in his gaze and the memory of his touch flips some kind of primal switch in me. The thing is, it’s not just physical with me and Pat. It never was. He always reached some much deeper level in me, and he still does.
Now, I want to kick myself for tumbling face-first into his flirt-trap, leading us on a comfortable stroll down Memory Lane. It’s a little overgrown and unkempt, but the views are still good. I need to reroute back to Heck No Highway.
I shoot Pat a narrow-eyed look and gesture between us. “This isn’t happening.”
Pat blinks with innocent Bambi eyes. “This … as in dinner together? Sharing a basket of chips? Talking like normal people?”
“We aren’t just any normal people. Not to each other.”
The easy grin slides off Pat’s face, replaced by something gut-clenchingly sincere.
Oh no! Bring back the flirt—I can handle that guy! The tender, vulnerable version of Pat … not so much.
He reaches for me, and I tuck my hands under my thighs for safekeeping. His hand drops to the table, palm up, like he’s keeping the offer open, just in case I change my mind.
I shift uncomfortably. “Why did you ask me to dinner? What’s your agenda? And don’t say you want to catch up for old times’ sake.”
“I wasn’t going to say that. Though I do want to catch up.” He bites his lip, studies my face, and sighs.
“Just spit it out. You’re killing me with the suspense.”
“I couldn’t help but hear what Wolf said earlier.” His lip curls a little at Wolf’s name. “If what he’s said is true, I want to help.”
I shudder at his use of the h-word. Val may be right that I have an aversion to asking for and taking help. It takes me an extra beat to realize what Pat is saying. In a far less romantic way than Wolf did—which is saying something—I think Pat is offering to marry me.
Which can’t be what he’s saying.
Thankfully the waiter brings over our plates at that moment. “Very hot,” he says, sliding a skillet of fajitas and all the fixings in front of me. I ordered fajitas because it requires assembly. Distraction for the win! And I definitely need it.
“No,” I say, unrolling my silverware from the napkin.
“But I haven’t even told you—”
“Still no.”
Pat shifts in his seat, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, those nice forearms fully on display. His forearms are like an appetizer, a tease compared to the main course of his biceps and shoulders and pecs and abs and—
My skillet pops loudly, making me jump. Grease spatters right on the forearm I was just ogling. Pat hisses, jerking back. Before I can stop them, my hands are moving. I dunk my cloth napkin in ice water, holding Pat’s arm in place while I press the cool napkin to the tiny red burns on his skin. Carefully, I draw us away from the danger zone of my sizzling skillet.
But now we’re in a totally different danger zone, with another kind of heat sizzling between us. Our eyes lock, and awareness makes my skin feel heavy and tight. The years we’ve lost and the weight of my complicated feelings do nothing to stifle the electricity between us. Pat’s thumb grazes the inside of my wrist, and I’m in danger of combusting on the spot, taking the whole restaurant with me in a blaze of glory.
And that just won’t do.
I pull my hands away and hold out the napkin. “Here. Put this on the burns.”
Pat shakes his head. “I’m all right. It’s nothing.”
“Good.”
I focus on my food and take way more time than necessary to assemble a single fajita. This is the most carefully crafted fajita in the history of fajitas. Culinary schools could use it as an example for students. It still breaks apart in the middle when I take a bite. Juice runs down my arm, and before I think about it, I drag my tongue over the drip before it can reach my elbow.