Page 35 of Not Exactly a Small-Town Romance

He doesn’t laugh at that but takes a sip anyway. I’m starting to understand how he thinks. He needs to be the man. He wants me to be the delicate flower.

Nope. Not gonna happen.

I take the lead on conversation from then on out, asking him about movies and TV shows, getting the expected answers involving blockbusters and action flicks.

Grant probably won’t ever be catchingLimited Fate. He hasn’t asked me what I do. Or anything about me, actually.

Becca brings the burgers, and I marvel at the height and breadth of Grant’s double-bacon chili burger.

Mine is thick with onions, and I opt to slide the bulk of them out from the bun.

This makes Grant grin. “I thought so.”

Yeah, I’ll probably be using that back stair escape.

He demolishes his burger and double fries like nothing I’ve ever seen. I frequently pause in amazement as he shovels enough food in a single bite to choke a bear.

Mine is serviceable, and I nibble my way through about a third of it. I don’t steal any fries. The way Grant is going at it, I might end up minus a finger.

Conversation stalls while he eats. Once Becca has taken the baskets away, the date seems to have run its course. Grant looks around, eyes trained on a basketball game on a TV in the corner.

If he’d parry even half the questions that I offered to him back at me, he’d have another hour.

“You want a second beer?” he asks, even though I’ve made it only halfway through my pint.

“I’m okay for now.” I chide myself on thefor now, as that suggests I want this date to keep going. I’m already dreaming of my Care Bear pajamas, a black-and-white movie on the lodge’s antiquated cable network, and maybe a rundown of the high points with Zachery.

But Grant rallies. “Let’s play pool.” He tilts his head at the table at the far end of the bar.

My quiet night dissolves into a faraway dream.

I contemplate saying no. Getting this over with.

But right then, Gaston and his khaki-pants friend come in to refill their steins. They bang on the bar and laugh until Becca wanders in from the kitchen.

“You big brutes, shut your damn mouths,” she says, snatching up their mugs and turning to the taps.

This makes them laugh louder. Gaston spots us at our table and nudges his friend. “Looks like G-spot hasn’t blown it yet.”

Looking at the two of them, I figure I might have the catch of Pitchfork. “Sure,” I tell Grant. “Let’s play a game.”

His face lights up, which tells me he’s probably a decent player. That’s fine. I’ve done it enough to avoid total embarrassment no matter his skill level.

Grant racks the balls and selects a cue for me. “Ladies first.”

I break the triangle apart, and a striped ball lands. “I guess I’m stripes,” I tell him.

My second shot fails to sink anything, so he takes over.

While he examines the table, I side-glance at the bar. Gaston and his co-conspirator are watching. Their attention makes me think of vipers holding out for the right opportunity to strike.

Everyone seems to like poking fun at Grant. I wonder why that is, but nothing about our date has been intimate enough for me to ask a question that personal.

Grant knocks in a blue solid, then an orange. He’s got good game. When he finally misses, Gaston calls out, “G-spot can’t handle his balls.” But the insult falls flat.

I watch the other people in the room to see how they react. They seem to be pretending we don’t exist. Becca has made herself scarce.

This is the behavior of people who are either sick of Gaston, or a little wary of him.

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