“Do you mean that literally or figuratively?” I laugh a little, but he doesn’t join in.
“Both. I’m in charge of your training, so you have nothing to worry about.” He looks over and flashes me a big, cheesy grin.
“Sounds exciting.” I say this with a complete lack of enthusiasm.
He reaches over and pokes me on the leg. “Be careful. I’m your trainer now, so you don’t want to piss me off.”
“Oh my, that sounds like a threat. Let me check my pulse.” I make a big show of resting my fingers at my wrist. “Hmmm, nope. Sorry. Not scared.”
“You will be. I promise.”
I know he’s joking, but it sends a special thrill up my spine to hear him say that. I like it when he goes from joking to serious. It makes him seem almost a little dangerous, and although I’m kind of allergic to real danger, the sexy danger is something I could get used to.
We travel along in companionable silence, listening to the radio and enjoying the cooling temperature that allows us to drive with the windows open for a change. When Boys Don’t Cry, one of my favorite songs from the eighties, blares from the speakers, Dev and I start singing together. At the chorus, we raise our voices louder and louder. By the time we pull into the restaurant parking lot, we’re practically yelling the last lines of the song. Happy brain hormone-drugs are pumping through my veins as he glides into a parking spot near the front doors and shuts off the engine.
“You ready to get your catfish on?” he asks.
I look up at the sign above us. “The sign says Chicken Licken. I think I’m supposed to be getting my chicken on.” I am definitely overdressed for this eatery, but I don’t care, because so is he. It’s like I’m on an adventure right now, and anything could happen. Fun stuff. Sexy stuff, maybe. Woo hoo! Bring on the catfish!
“Stay right there.” He opens his door and gets out, shuts it, and then jogs around to my side. My door opens and he’s standing there with his hand out. I slide my palm into his and use the contact to lever myself out of the car. I feel like a princess. A princess standing outside of Chicken Licken, the fried food capital of New Orleans, if the smell is any indicator.
“Trust me,” he says, “this’ll be the best fried catfish you’ve ever eaten.” He leads me up to the front door. The odor of grease gets more pungent.
“What if I don’t like catfish?” I ask, looking at him sideways.
He grabs the door and pulls it open, looking down at me with a very serious expression. “If you don’t like catfish, I’m afraid we can’t be friends anymore.”
I poke him in the belly as I walk by. “Good thing I like catfish.”
Okay, so I’m flirting, even though he called us friends. Sue me. He’s too damn cute with that dimple of his. I’m pretty sure he knows it’s killing me every time he uses it.
Several people greet Dev by name as we walk into the restaurant. A rotund lady easily in her sixties leads us to a booth in the back corner.
“The usual?” she asks.
“Of course. Bring me a double order so I can share it with this lovely lady here.”
The woman looks at me and winks. “I was wondering when you were going to bring somebody special by.”
Does that mean I’m the first? My face goes warm with the compliment.
“This here is Jenny. She’s my friend from work.” Dev’s voice has taken on a distinct Cajun flair. I like it. A lot.
The lady nods. “Jenny, it’s very nice to make your acquaintance. I’m Melba, and you are welcome here anytime, even if you don’t bring this tall drink of water with you.” She gestures at my date who’s not really a date.
“I hear you have the best catfish in town.” I smile at her, caught up in the mood of the place.
“You heard right. But I’ll let you judge for yourself.” She looks at Dev. “Sweet tea?”
He winks at her. “Bring us two.”
I’m not going to complain about all the calories in that tea that’s probably just as sweet as an actual Coke. Tonight, I’m going to splurge. I’m going to eat catfish and drink sweet tea until my stomach begs for mercy.
We’re alone at the table now, the sounds of satisfied diners surrounding us with a happy buzz. The smell of greasy, fried food hangs in the air, probably coating my hair and clothing, but I don’t care. This is already one of the best non-dates I’ve ever been on.
“So, did you enjoy working with Lucky?”
I nod. “Yep. We had a little bit of a scare with those people breaking in when we were working, but besides that, it was fun.” I realize as I’m telling him this that I actually did enjoy myself. I have a sneaking suspicion that this job is going to be a lot like pregnancy; at the time, it seems really awful and hard and scary, but looking back all you can remember are the good parts. The fear kind of fades out to a mere wisp of a memory, the details fuzzy and hard to recall.