“How did it go?”
She shrugs. “It was cold. My butt is still freezing,” she admits. I get an immediate and strong image of me helping to warm up her ass. I saw that perfect globe that is her ass cheek this very morning. “What?” she asks.
My thoughts must have played out on my face. “Nothing,” I say. But a grin tugs at the corners of my lips.
“What’s so funny?” she asks, her head tilting to the side.
I shake my head. “My mind was in the gutter if you must know,” I admit. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. Please go ahead.” I motion for her to keep talking using my hands.
“You were thinking about my butt,” she says. And now she’s grinning too.
Heat creeps up my cheeks. She’s so damn pretty.
The waitress comes to the table with menus, and lays one in front of each of us. “Welcome,” she says. “Do you want to know our specials?” She blinks at me, trying to catch my eyes. I make it a point not to look at her.
Kit nods in answer to her question. She rattles off some menu items and their prices, and I see Kit reach into her pocket and count her money beneath the table. There’s no fucking way I’m letting her buy dinner.
“What can I get for you to drink?”
Kit arches a brow at me and I motion from her to me and back so she’ll get me what she’s having. “Root beer?” she asks.
I nod. The waitress leaves us with the two menus. I open mine and she doesn’t. “Do you know what you want?” I ask.
“What are you having?” She smiles at me.
I open the other menu in front of her and point to the word at the top. “What do you see when you look at that?”
She scrunches up her nose. “I see someone who thinks he can teach me to read.” She closes the menu. “Believe me, better people than you have tried.”
“Who tried?” I ask.
She takes a sip of her root beer through a straw, her lips pursing around it. “A better question would be who didn’t try. I have been poked and prodded and put through special ed and been to therapists who thought they could unlock my brain. No one could.”
She doesn’t look upset by this. She just looks resigned to it. I open the menu back up, just because I’m curious. I point to the word at the top of the page again. “What does that say?” I ask.
She looks down at it and closes it. “I know words,” she says. She looks like she really wants to explain it to me, and I really want to hear it. “I can spell words. And I know what they mean. It’s just the way they lay on the page that’s hard for me.” She shrugs. “I don’t expect you to understand.” She’s looking everywhere but at me now, and I wish I hadn’t pushed it.
“So, you know the words, and how to spell them in your head?” That baffles me.
“Crazy, isn’t it?” She laughs, but there’s no smile on her face. “Dyslexia’s a bitch.”
The waitress reappears with a basket full of bread and places it in the center of the table. Kit reaches for a piece and I wonder if she ate today.
“Did you decide what you want?” the waitress asks. I point to the chicken parmigiana. She nods and looks at me funny. She’s catching on that something isn’t right. But apparently, she still finds me intriguing.
“What’s good?” Kit asks her. She did this same thing at the diner. It must be how she copes.
“The chicken parmigiana is amazing,” she says, smiling down at me. Kit’s not impressed. “But the alfredo is my favorite.”
I raise my brows at her in encouragement. She laughs. “Ok, but if I don’t like it, I’m taking your chicken,” she warns. I nod. “I’ll take the alfredo,” she says to the waitress.
Kit lifts a piece of bread to her lips and takes a bite. A crumb sticks to her lip and I want to reach over and catch it, and bring it to my lips. But I don’t dare. I have her at dinner with me. If I push her too hard, she’s going to run away.
“Did you eat today?” I blurt out.
Her face flushes and she nods. She’s lying. I’m sure of it.
I push the bread basket toward her and say, “Eat.” She takes another piece.
She chews silently for a minute and then she looks at me. Her face is soft when she says, “What you did for that woman in the shop, with the tattoos…” I nod when she stops. She’s referring to the nipple tats. “That was amazing and beautiful. Where did you learn to do that?”
I shrug. I don’t remember learning it. I just knew I could draw it. And if I can draw it, I can run a tat of it. “I think she was pleased.”
“Are you kidding?” She slaps the table. “She was ecstatic. And they really were beautiful. Like art. Can I see your tattoos?” she asks hesitantly.