Page 5 of SCRUMptious

“First, you don't have to sound so thrilled, and second, what about grabbing a cup of coffee? There's a place I like about a kilometer from here.” Somehow, without me realizing what was happening, he managed to slip the backpack from my shoulder and heft it onto his ownback.

“Oh, you mean now?” I asked in bewilderment. I'd just assumed he meant we'd go to coffee at some point in the future, not this very minute.

Donal chuckled and shook his head. “Yes, now. Unless you have somewhere else you have to be?” He raised an eyebrow in question.

“No, nowhere else,” I admitted on a sigh, barely managing to keep the loneliness from seeping into my voice.

“Perfect.” He rested his hand on the small of my back as he led me to the crosswalk and in the direction of the coffee shop. “I have to warn you though. This place doesn't do fancy drinks. You want something with whipped cream and chocolate sauce, I'm not sure we can be friends.”

I laughed and rolled my eyes. How little Donal knew about me. “No, that's fine. I take my coffee black … like my heart.”

“Nice. Beautiful and witty.”

“Donal …”

“What?” he asked with an exaggerated bat of his long eyelashes.

He looked ridiculous. Ridiculous and utterly charming. During the short time I'd known him, Donal often behaved like a big old kid shoved inside a man's body, but his complete lack of guile and artifice was a refreshing change of pace from the people I'd been surrounded by in LA. Back home, everything was all about keeping up appearances and not letting anyone ever see the realyou.

“You are too much,” I told him, shaking my head and chuckling.

“That's what she said,” he muttered under his breath before winking and tossing me a mischievousgrin.

“You can't turn it off, can you?” I nudged him with my elbow.

“Much to the exasperation of my family, no. The truth is, my dad's kind of famous and if you want to get any attention in my family, you have to find a way to stand out. For me, that was being the clown, the one who never took anything seriously.”

Even though his words were flippant, his tone wasn't. This was possibly the first time Donal Casey had allowed me to see a serious, more subdued side of him. I didn't enjoy the somber notes with which he spoke of his childhood and family, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't appreciate that he could dial down the playfulness for a moment to have an actual adult conversation.

“You have any siblings?” he asked, breaking the silence.

“No,” I answered. “My parents were a bit older when they finally had me—their miracle baby—so it was just the three of us until my dad died in a car accident when I was18.”

“I'm sorry, that's horrible.”

“It was a long time ago, but thankyou.”

“Are you still close with yourmam?”

I smiled wistfully. “Yeah, it's hard being away from her right now, but it's with a larger goal in mind, so …” I shrugged.

“And what's that?” he asked, his hand brushing against mine. “Your goal, Imean.”

Part of me wanted to think the quick caress had been accidental, while the other part longed to have him hold my hand in earnest. I knew that was just my loneliness talking, but I couldn't help it. I hadn't been with anyone since Javier and I didn't mind admitting—at least to myself—that I missed the connection we'd had. Not enough to do anything untoward with Donal, mind you, but that didn't stop me from imagining what it would be like for him touch me the way a man touched a woman. There were more reasons than not why that was a terrible idea, but sometimes you had to give your fantasies a long leash to remind yourself you were still alive and capable of feeling. But that's all it could ever be—a reminder that I hadn't lost my capacity for desire. Someday another, more appropriate man would come along who would make my body tremble and my soul tingle the way Donal did, and then I'd grab the opportunity by the horns. For now, I forced myself to push aside these wayward thoughts and focus instead on the conversation athand.

“I want to open up a food truck,” I told him eventually. “I don't have a clear vision yet for what type of food I'd serve, but I'll get there.”

“What's the absolute best meal youmake?”

Without pause, I answered, “Sweet potato chili.”

“Soup truck maybe?”

“Yeah, maybe. I've thought about that for a while, but I'm worried with the weather in SoCal, a soup truck would be too limiting. Customers don't really want a big bowl of chowder, for example, when it's 100 degrees outside.”

“No, I'd imagine not,” came his thoughtful reply. “If not soup, what else do you like to cook? From what I've tasted this week, you have the ability to combine unexpected flavors in a fun, novelway.”

Shocked over his heartfelt compliment, I stopped walking and turned to face him. “Wow, thank you, Donal. That might be the nicest thing you've ever said tome.”

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