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“Oh.” Something happy and surprised flips in my chest at the idea of the night not being over yet. “I like everything.”
He merges into traffic. “Excellent. Some of my favorite stuff is everything. Now tell me what you want to eat.”
I look at his near-perfect profile. He hasn’t shaved in the last couple of days, looks a bit tired. I wonder if he’s been up and about since morning. If he hasn’t had anything since lunch. He’s huge, probably always ravenous. Simple stuff, big portions.
“Burgers,” I say.
He gives me aNice trylook. “Yes, Elsie, I do like burgers. That wasn’t the question, though.”
I scowl. How does he do this? How does healways—
“Want me to pull over so you can get out and stomp your foot a bit?”
I growl. Judging from the smile, he absolutely hears me.
Okay—what do I want? Well, cheese. I’m always in the mood for cheese. But cheese is not really a meal, and the places where it might be are usually too fancy, and—
“Say it,” he orders.
“What?”
“What you’re thinking.”
“I’m not—”
“Say it.”
“Really, I’m—”
“Say it.”
“Cheese,” I almost yell. Shocking myself.
Jack smiles, satisfied. “I know just the place.”
•••
“You’re joking.”
“Nope.”
“We can’t—not here.”
“Why?”
“Because...”
Jack waits for me to finish the sentence. When I’m unable to, the ever-present lower-back hand nudges me inside the cozy heat of the restaurant.
OfMiel.
“This seems sadistic,” I point out, “even for you.”
“You underestimated me, then.”
“Two?” The hostess greets us, chirpy. “Would you prefer a table or a booth?”
Jack looks at me like we’re a drug cartel and I’m the ringleader who needs to sign off on any decision. Dammit, this honesty business is hard. Okay, so not the booth—Jack’s legs are skyscraper long, so he’d probably hate it. But tables are less private, which healsomight hate—
