Page 16 of The Check Down

She crosses her arms and cants her head, waiting.

I deserve a fucking gold medal in restraint for not checking out her tits right now.

“It’s a staple in Memphis. When you eat at a barbecue joint, you gotta start with a sausage and cheese plate.”

“Like a charcuterie board?” She arches her brow.

“Like a sausage and cheese plate,” I laugh, my chest expanding at our banter. “You’ll see.”

She doesn’t question me further. Damn, maybe she meant it when she said she trusts me. Yet another reason to keep this strictly platonic. My gut, along with the wariness swimming in her eyes, tells me she doesn’t bestow that gift upon many people in her life.And tonight the one person she should trust the most let her down in a big way.

“You have siblings?” I ask as Trish sets a platter in the middle of the table.

Brynn studies the tray, then gives her head a shake. “None,” she confirms. “What about you?”

“Two brothers. One older, one younger.”

“Ah, middle child. That explains a lot.” Before I can question that statement, she tips her chin to the plate of deliciousness between us. “So. Literally sausage and cheese on a plate. With a pickle bonus I wasn’t expecting.”

I bite back a chuckle. “Those pickles are fucking tasty. You don’t like ’em?”

She shakes her head. “Not a gherkin fan.”

“Noted.” Before I dig into the savory smoked sausage that’s making my mouth water, I pull up the notes app on my phone. I title a new note with her first and last name, then listonly childandhates picklesunderneath.

She squints, curious, but doesn’t question me.

Don’t ask me why I’m compelled to do this. Just feels fucking important to keep track of this shit in case I need it later.

We eat in silence for a few minutes. Every now and then, I study her, the way her eyes close when she first bites into the hickory-smoked sausage or how her tongue darts out to lick barbecue sauce off her lips. How she kind of smiles right before she pulls another cube of cheese off the toothpick with her perfect white teeth. When she catches me, my hand freezes over the tray. Her cheeks pinken, and she gives me a shy smile.

That look sends heat rolling through me. Fuck, I’m in trouble.

It’s doused quickly, though, when an image of her devastated expression from earlier hits me.

You can’t go there, Lacey.

I close my eyes for a beat, hoping like hell that when I open them, I’ll see her through different lenses. Lenses that frame the woman across from me as a friend, not a potential lover.

It’s a struggle, but I force my brain to come up with get-to-know-her-as-a-friend questions. Not get-into-her-pants questions.

“So, Brynn Nelson, not a gherkin fan, what do you do with your days?”

She swallows before she answers. “I teach English lit at Townes.”

I’m impressed and intimidated. Townes is a small, private university here in Memphis. Very prestigious. This woman is an academic, and no doubt a helluva lot smarter than me. “Whoa.” I lean in closer, elbows on the table. “So can I call youprofessor?”

One corner of her mouth inches up. “No. I don’t have my PhD. Yet.”

“Yet? So you’re working on it?”

She presses a napkin to her lips and nods. “I’ve been working on it since I moved here. Started working on my dissertation this semester.”

Pushing back against the booth, I whistle. “I’m guessing it’s not about sports.”

The laugh that leaves her is a pleasing tinkling of notes that makes my smile grow wider. “No sports involved. More like nineteenth-century female novelists.” She waves a hand like it’s no big deal.

“Damn it,” I grouse, wearing a mock frown. “Guess that means you won’t need my expertise after all.”

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