Page 48 of Shifting Sands
“Are you having a good time?”
“Mmhmm,” I say as I dip a buffalo chicken finger into blue cheese dressing and pop it into my mouth.
“Really? Even though I’m feeding you chicken strips and fries on a boat that sounds like it could fall apart at any minute?”
I laugh. “Eh, I don’t scare easily. I grew up around creeks and rivers. If the boat falls apart, we’ll just have to swim to shore. And what is wrong with chicken fingers and fries?” I shove another bite into my mouth.
He nods. “Touche.”
“I liked Willis,” I say, changing the subject.
“He’s a grumpy old fart,” he replies.
“True, but I feel like once you get to a certain age, you’ve earned the right to be a little grumpy and to speak your mind.”
“I suppose you’re right,” he agrees.
“Is he good to work for? Other than being an ass,” I ask.
He shrugs. “It’s work. Nothing to brag about.”
“Nothing to be embarrassed about either. I’m the undeniable queen of embarrassing jobs, so I should know,” I say.
He quirks a brow. “The queen, huh?”
“Oh, yeah. Don’t believe me? Ask me what my first job was,” I dare him.
“Okay, I’ll bite. What, pray tell, was your first job?” he asks.
“I was a hostess,” I say.
He throws his hand to his chest and gasps. “A hostess! How horrifying.”
“That’s not the embarrassing part, smarty-pants. As part of my hostess duties, I had to answer the phone. You know, to give business hours and take to-go orders, things like that,” I explain.
“Still don’t see how that qualifies you as the queen,” he says, tapping the end of my nose with his finger.
“Well, I worked for IHOP, short for International House of Pancakes,” I continue.
He nods. “Yeah, I’ve heard of it.”
I take a deep breath. “This particular breakfast restaurant is located on Cox Road in a town just outside of Balsam Ridge. My manager required me to answer every single call with, ‘IHOP on Cox. This is Brandee. How may I serve you?’” I say, then lean over and look him in the eyes. “Now, repeat that to yourself—slowly.”
He chokes on the sip of wine he just swallowed. “You’re shitting me?” he says once he recovers.
I shake my head. “Nope.”
“Wow. You’re right; that definitely qualifies you as the queen.”
He picks up the bottle of wine and tilts his head. I extend my paper cup, and he tops it off.
After we finish eating, we pack everything back into the cooler, Brew then settles on his back and opens his arms. I lie down in his embrace, and the warmth of the heater radiates up and envelops us.
“This is nice,” I murmur into the air as we gaze up at the sky.
And it is nice. I’m curled up in Brew’s arms, the night wrapped around us like velvet. The boat rocks gently beneath us, the soft slap of water against the hull. We’re stretched out on a blanket, the remains of our romantic picnic tucked away. Above us, the stars scatter across the sky like beautiful, twinkling lights, so close that they appear to be within reach, as if you could capture one in the palm of your hand.
“I think I see a lion,” I whisper, pointing at a cluster of stars.
