Page 136 of How to Win the Girl

I mean, it’s unlikely but not entirely impossible?

Some people find us interchangeable.

I plop down and remove my ball cap, tossing it on the table and running my fingers through my hair. I stick my face in the menu, too, wanting everything but only ordering four eggs sunny side up, turkey bacon, hash browns, and a pecan sticky bun.

Oh, and orange juice.

Daisy orders the farmer’s delight, whatever that is, clasping her hands in front of her on the table, grinning at me.

“Spit it out,” I tell her, not able to stand the suspense.

“So I was thinking.”

“About?”

“I have a plan.”

I smirk. “Isn’t it a little early for planning? Can’t we eat first?”

She sits back in her seat, hands disappearing beneath the table, and my gut turns. Did I just disappoint her? Her eyes aren’t as sparkly all of a sudden, and now I feel like an asshat.

“Just kidding. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

Daisy perks up again, like a plant that’s just been watered and placed in the sun.

“You know how we talked about taking things slow?”

Uh. No.

I actually don’t.

Still, I nod because it feels like the right answer.

“We’re pretty touchy-feely already,” she tells me, smiling up at the server when he sets down a plate of small, delicate croissants and an even smaller plate of butter. “Oh! Cute!” Daisy reaches for one, distracted. “Like I need more carbs for breakfast.”

She turns the bite-sized croissant this way and that, studying it like a gemologist studies a diamond.

“Carbs are always a good idea.”

“That should be a bumper sticker.” She moans when she pops a bite in her mouth. “I could live on this shit. Bagels, especially.”

“Same.” I pause, not reaching for a croissant ’cause I have a massive pecan roll coming that’ll be drenched in glaze and syrup, which will probably give me the Texas trots in a few hours.

Texas trots = the shits.

Use your imagination.

But I digress…

“You were sayin’?”

Daisy chews. Swallows. “I was thinking about the whole sex thing and how you can’t seem to keep your hands off me.”

I can feel the surprise on my face at her words. “Uh, excuse me? You’re the one who can’t keep her hands off me.”

Daisy laughs. “Ha ha, you’re funny.”

I’m insulted, kind of, and not used to being in this position. So she thinks I can’t keep my hands off her? I mean, it’s true that I went down on her, and it’s mostly true that I was on the verge of begging to drive to her house last night—but I can keep my hands off her.

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