Page 79 of A Million To Fall

He shrugs.

I turn to Maya. “Two large deluxe cheeseburger combos. And a large Coke. Please.”

She glances between us. “Two checks?”

“One,” I say firmly. I owe him at least a meal after… everything.

She leaves and I turn my attention back to Boston. He tugs at the damp shirt sticking to him, and even though I make a conscious effort not to look, my eyes keep drifting to his chest.

Heat flashes low in my belly.

Not helpful.

I clear my throat and try for a conversation. “Don’t you usually get off later?”

Something shutters behind his eyes. “Slow night,” he says simply.

Now that he said it, yeah, AJ’s is considerably less packed than I’m used to seeing on a Saturday.

“That’s not so bad, though? Gives you some free time. Who wouldn’t want that on a weekend.”

Boston makes a noncommittal sound, then switches topics, asking me about my head instead.

Ten minutes and an unsolicited lecture on concussion recovery later, we’re walking back across the parking lot, food and drinks in hand.

The summer heat has finally started to ease, leaving behind a warm breeze that stirs the trees lining the edge of the lot.

Boston stops beside his car.

“Let me grab a shirt really quick,” he says, handing me the paper bag and drink carrier.

“You got a whole change of outfit in your car?” I ask as he pops the trunk. It glides open.

“Looks like we have that in common. I’m currently lugging around three different hoodies and at least two pairs of shoes. Nothing to cover the lower half of my body, though,” I joke, but it doesn’t land.

“Shit,” he mutters.

I peek around him. “What?”

He’s already reaching up, quickly pulling the trunk shut. Like he doesn’t want me to see the contents. But he’s not fast enough. My gaze already caught on the rolled-up sleeping bag and the folded blanket, then flicked to the propane cooker before landing on the red plastic shopping basket holding a jar of peanut butter, canned fruit, crackers, and several bottles of water.

The trunk shuts and I stand there, blinking.

The image doesn’t quite compute.

My brows crease. “Do you do a lot of camping?”

Boston goes still. Too still.

I tear my gaze away from the closed trunk and look at Boston. My stomach drops. Not only because of the long pause before he answers, but because of the way he looks at me. Like he’s bracing for impact. He gives the tiniest shake of his head. “No.”

That’s it.

Just no. Not occasionally. Not once in a rare while. Just no.

My brain is working, cogs clicking, wheels spinning, desperate to arrive anywhere but the conclusion lurking at the edges of my thoughts.

I force a smile. “Anyway, do you want to stop by your place to change before we head to my house?”