“Of course, I have. Did you not just hear me say that it’s all Pete would listen to?”
I laugh shaking my head. I grab my phone and start the song over.
“Really!”
I grab her hand and bring it to my mouth then entwine our fingers together. “Just listen to the words. Forget the music and forget the twang.”
“Fine,” she says with a huff.
I turn the song up and watch her out of the corner of my eye as I drive. Her face is scrunched, and I get the feeling the only reason her arms aren’t folded tight across her chest is because I have her hand in mine. Then I see the corner of her mouth twitch. I can see her eyes flicker and light up as she really listens.
She turns to me when the song is over as we pull into the parking a lot. I stop whatever she’s about to say with a shake of my head.She doesn't need to explain. I can see she gets it. I don't want her to say anything about us because I know how she feels, even when she can't say it. She'll get there but if she tries right now, it won't be the truth, and I don't want her making light of how I feel.
I help her out of the truck then I’m leading her inside. She takes a look around, taking in the tables that have the menus under the laminate. The black and white vinyl flooring is clean, but clearly well used. The wallpaper is something out of the seventies and peeling badly.
Jax and I have tried to give Opal, the sixty-five-year-old owner, the money to have repairs done, but she constantly refuses. She says that changing everything would be like changing the heart and soul of a person.
I slide us into the booth Jax, Zoey, and I usually share. The same fucking booth we’ve been sharing since we were teenagers.
“Real food, Darlin’. It won’t be pretty, but it will taste better than anything you’ve ever had.”
She gives me a doubtful look. “I live in New York. Do you really think the food here can beat a city of that size?”
“I would ask if you would like to wager on that, but I’m not about to hustle you like that,” I taunt her.
“Oh no, pretty boy. You want to make a bet. Let’s make a bet. I’ve eaten at nearly every restaurant in New York except for the overpriced ones.”
“What could we possibly bet?”
“If I win, we have sex,” she demands.
I frown like that would be a huge let down if she wins. “What do I get if I win?”
“What do you want?”
“For you to finally admit how you really feel about me,” I tell her simply. I lean over the table getting just a little bit closer, “For you to admit you fucking like me."
She pales making me chuckle. I don't get insulted. Well not too much. “Or we bet a hundred bucks,” I offer.
She chews the inside of her cheek and gives me a weak nod. I extend my hand for a handshake to seal the deal. She slips her hand into mine and I wink.
It should make me a self-conscious, I guess. I’ve been working my ass off for weeks now with her, but it doesn’t. Not even a little bit. She’ll come around. Fuck knows she should know how goddamned serious I am about this. I haven’t even tried to fuck her because she needs to know this is about more than sex. I am forcing her to be with me emotionally and mentally. I want her to see this that we have isn't just going away. It's not just a physical attraction. But based off of what she wanted if she wins, it’s really getting to her which is okay too.
Our waitress comes over for our orders. I order for her the grilled seafood platter that comes with gumbo, coleslaw, shrimp, fish, oysters, frog legs, and stuffed crab while getting myself the fried version because I intend on her trying both. I also order appetizers of fried crawfish tails and alligator.
“Do you always take it upon yourself to order for a woman?”
“First, you know I don’t. Second, there’s a hundred bucks at stake. I need to make sure you get to try as many things off the menu as possible. This is the best way to make sure that happens.”
She giggles until a song begins playing in the background. “Here too,” she groans.
“Don’t pretend you didn’t like the song earlier,” I say taking a sip of my drink.
“You wouldn’t let me tell you otherwise,” she snarks.
“The song makes me think of you,” I tell her. “Every fucking time I hear it I think about you. Then again, there’s not many times I’m not thinking about you.”
She ducks her head with a blush. I’ve noticed her doing that more and more lately in spite of the fact she claims to not be the blushing type of girl. “I understand the problem,” she mumbles.
