Page 35 of Obey

He called my mama an A-hole. And from the defiant look in his eye, and the firm set of his jaw, he doesn’t care.

“You’re either real brave, or real stupid to insult a southern woman’s mama, Jagger.” I poke his giant chest. Oh. Oh my. He’s got muscles under that shirt.

“I’m real hungry, ma’am. That’s what I am.” His accent is terrible, but I can’t help giggling at him. “You comin’ to eat?”

I shove his arm but he barely moves. “I don’t talk like that. Let me get out of my pjs and we’ll go eat.”

It’s somewhere between lunch and dinner. Too late for lunch, too early for dinner. But when we hit the restaurant, there are a few tables of people dotted around. There’s a young couple with two kids in the corner closest to the door. The mom’s arguing with a little boy with unruly red hair about a screen, while the dad guides food toward a baby in a high chair while making airplane noises.

It must be awful to be trapped in a hotel with kids. Not having their toys, or clothes, or space to roam freely. Hopefully the hotel has diapers and things in case the mom runs out. If this was a flood, I’d contemplate trying to hit up a pharmacy, but there’s no way I’m braving Bessie on the roads. Not even for anadorable baby whose mouth, hair, and entire body is covered in tomato sauce. She’s still super cute, though.

Two old men play backgammon on one table, another two are playing Battleship, it seems when one lands a hit they make exploding noises. I’m here for it.

At another table, a group of half a dozen old ladies sit with pots of tea and fancy china cups on the table. They’ve got the remnants of afternoon tea scattered around, half eaten sandwiches and decadent pastries, while they sit and knit or crochet.

Grammy used to love her weekly stitch ‘n bitch group. Something tweaks inside my chest. What if Grammy follows my parents with her opinion on Harry? Will she disown me if I don’t do as they say?

A warm hand meets my lower back and guides me forward. The hostess is gesturing to a table for two in the far corner, away from the bustle of the main restaurant. It’s definitely not my vibes that’s causing her to isolate us from the rest of the group.

Jagger radiates ‘leave me alone’ waves into the air around him. It’s his natural vibration frequency.

“One of the servers will be over to take your drinks order in a moment.” The hostess’s smile lights up the room as she hands Jagger both our menus.

“Thank you.” I match her smile with a smile of my own.

As with most chairs, my feet don’t quite touch the ground when I sit all the way back. So I scoot forward. “What looks good?”

He doesn’t even glance at the menu. “Pancake stack, with a triple side of bacon.”

Wow. This man doesn’t play around when it comes to food. Granted, we haven’t eaten anything but a granola bar for breakfast since our drive through last night.

“Sounds good.” I skim the menu, keeping one eye on my dinner buddy over the edge of the large card. He doesn’t make conversation, he doesn’t scroll on his phone, he doesn’t read, doesn’t ask what I’m having to eat, or, I dunno, anything. He just sits.

What’s going on inside his beautiful brain?

Placing the menu on the table, I clasp my hands together on top of it, leaning toward him. “Would you rather be forced to sing along, or dance to every single song you hear?”

He looks at me like I’ve grown three heads, my skin has changed to blue, and I’ve sprouted scales all over my body. “Neither.”

“Are y’all ready to order?” Our server is tall, has athletic shoulders like she might be a swimmer, and looks like someone Jagger would be better suited to be having dinner with.

Something stirs in my stomach. This man isn’t mine, I have no claim to him. All we’ve done is kiss, and get off side-by-side in bed last night, but that seedling of a crush I had on him seems to be sprouting teeny tiny roots in my chest, and I don’t like it.

We order our meal, and the server leaves with one parting, toothpaste ad smile.

I level him with an eye roll. “You can’t pick neither, that’s not how the game works.”

“I don’t play games.”

Another eye roll. “Look, we’re stuck here together. How else do you suggest we pass the time if not getting to know each other?”

There’s that bemused look in his eye again. “Would you rather questions isn’t exactly getting to know each other, Half-Pint.”

I mean, he has a point. But what does knowing his favorite color, or food tell me about him?

“Indulge me?”

He sighs with a shake of his head. The Battleship’s table erupts into a chorus of explosion noises as one old guy leaps to his feet, arms raised above his head in triumph. His wiry glasses slide off his nose and onto the table with a plop. Part of me wants to go high five him for his success.

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