Page 97 of Lethal in Pink

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

The couple in front of us turns around. Amiyah shoots them a look of such profound, sympathetic apology that they immediately turn back, forgiving her by association. She kicks my ankle under the seat.

I shut up and eat more popcorn.

When the credits roll, our shoulders knock together in the narrow aisle, and we push through the heavy glass doors back out into the thick, cooling weight of the night.

“Thoughts?” she asks, tossing her empty cup.

“The script made zero sense, but I’m glad you enjoyed the eye candy.”

She glances sideways, an eyebrow arching. “Is that professional critique?”

“That’s just an observation. You looked ready to draft him a retainer agreement by the third car chase.”

She offers a small, wicked little smile—the kind that does entirely too much damage to my ribs. “He had a good jawline.”

“I have a good jawline.”

“Yours is serviceable.”

“Serviceable.”

“At best.”

I roll my eyes, leading the way toward the car.

She knows she’s full of shit, too. I mean, my jawline is objectively top-tier. Or at worst, top three in our entire graduating class. "Serviceable"? Absolutely not.

We’re ten minutes into the drive before I say anything.

She’s staring out the window, hands locked in her lap, fingers worrying the hem of her dress. Her shoulders are pulled up tight, completely rigid.

“We’re getting food,” I say, cutting the wheel toward Wilshire.

“I’m fine.”

“You look like you’re about to throw up or start a bar fight. We’re going to the diner.”

She doesn't argue, which tells me everything I need to know.

The place off Wilshire is a time capsule of cracked red vinyl, chrome trim, and the permanent smell of stale grease and black coffee. A tired waitress drops off two plastic cups of ice water and walks away before we can even look up.

Amiyah scans the laminated menu like she's reading a tax indictment, her shoulders dropping an inch.

She stares at the page a second longer, and the last of her rigid posture drains out of her.

“Goddammit,” she mutters, rubbing the back of her neck. “It all sounds good. The burgers and fries, the milkshakes, the pies.”

She looks like she’s practically foaming at the mouth, staring at the descriptions with the intensity of someone who hasn't slept or eaten a decent meal in three days.

I grin, not even trying to hide it. “Get all of it.”

“Jae, I can’t eat a double cheeseburger, a basket of fries, a shake, and a slice of pie.”

“Watch me order it for you anyway.”