Page 10 of Click of Fate

“Do you think meatballs live rent-free in most people’s minds?” I ask her, and while she doesn’t look at me, I see her smile and know I'm on the right track with her.

I really didn’t plan on hooking up tonight, but this woman is intriguing as hell. There is something about her that screams,You want to get to know me, but I won’t make it easy.I’ve always found that hard work pays off.

“So, you own a rock climbing gym?” she asks as she looks around the crowded bar. I guess I still haven’t earned her full attention.

“I run it. I don’t own it yet. Family business. I’ve been given some freedom to prove myself,” I tell her honestly.

“Ah. That sounds both invigorating and stressful.” She glances at me. The Trading Post isn’t a dark and dreary place, so there’s plenty of light for me to see the look she gives me. She must know a thing or two about having to prove herself.

“It is. What about you?” I ask her, picking up my glass and taking a sip.

She finally gives me her attention, and her face lights up as she starts to share. “I’m a photojournalist.”

Impressed, I lean back and whistle. “Look at you. That’s an impressive career.” She smiles and shrugs, trying to play it cool. “So, what kind of things do you photo journal about?”

She lifts her chin. “Sports, cultural events, and human-interest stories across the US.”

“Like…” I just want her to keep talking; she’s clearly passionate about her career.

“I’ve covered Mardi Gras, several major music festivals, people with interesting jobs—like storm chasers—and most recently, last year’s X Games in Aspen.”

“Wow. So I bet you’ve seen a lot of interesting stuff.”

“You could say that. But I’ve never need a meatball served seven ways with beer.” She laughs, grinning wide, and I can’t help it—I’m locked in. She’s fucking gorgeous when she isn’t pretending she isn’t invested in our conversation.

Determined, I clear my throat. “Alright, first test. What kind of meatballs are you getting?” I ask her.

“What do you meanfirst test? What happens if I fail?” She finally looks away from the menu and levels me with a challenging look.

“I get up and leave. That’s it. That’s the deal breaker.” I know I’m taking a risk by saying this, but I’m nothing if not a risk taker.

She ponders this for a moment, her bottom lip pulled between her teeth. “That’s dramatic. You own a climbing gym, not a Michelin-star restaurant.”

“Hey, you learn a lot about a person from their food choices. You get Swedish meatballs, you’re a comfort creature. You pick buffalo, you live for chaos.”

“And what about bourbon barbecue?” she asks, eyeing the menu again.

“You like things sweet with a little kick. You act tough but secretly love cozy things, like flannel and autumn and sad acoustic music.” I don’t tell her that perfectly describes me.

“That’s disturbingly specific. Do you also moonlight as a psychic?” she challenges.

“Nah, I just observe things.” I grin at her and tap my glass. We’ll need to get some food in front of us before we get another drink if we plan on keeping up this flirting tonight.

“Alright, Professor Meatball, what are you getting?” she asks as she turns toward me, crossing one leg over the other, her Converse-covered foot dangling dangerously close.

“I’m feeling the Korean Gochujang. Spicy, unexpected, and a little bit of an adventure,” I tell her with a slow, knowing smirk. Let her read into that.

Her mouth twitches with a ghost of a smile. “That tracks. I was gonna say it sounds reckless, but you probably climb rocks for fun.”

“And you photograph people doing reckless things for fun. Not so different.”

“Hmm. Maybe.” She studies me, and the attention is addicting.

“So, what’s it gonna be? Are we food soulmates or is this doomed before it starts?”

Stella taps her finger over her lips as she pretends to think hard. Laughter twinkles in her eyes as she watches me. “Bourbon barbecue. Guess I’m leaning into the ‘sweet with a kick’ label.”

I pump my fist in the air. “Knew it.”

---