Page 9 of Not Fooling Anyone

She nods, looking away as she stows her notebook in her backpack.

“You hungry?” I ask. “There’s a diner across the street we could talk at.”

“Sure.”

I take a closer look at her. “You all right?”

She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Just tired. Trying to decipher Marty’s handwriting is no joke.”

“We could—”

“Ethan, I can’t take you seriously when you’re shirtless. Can you put something on?”

I glance down at myself. “Does the sight of my bare torso offend you?”

Her lips twitch. How is it that I’ve known her for only twenty-four hours and I’m already living for the barest signs of her amusement?

“Go take your shower. I’ll be in the parking lot.” She brushes past me, careful not to touch my sweat.

All right, message received. Guess she really is not interested.

I clean up and meet her outside, both of us driving to Kate’s Kitchen around the corner.

“Think there’s actually a Kate?” I whisper as the hostess guides us to a booth near the back of the diner.

Lexie glances at me. “What?”

“The name of the place. Did they choose it because it was alliterative or because someone named Kate founded it?”

She waits till we’re seated and alone before she responds. “Is this what I have to look forward to? You don’t have to voice everything your brain comes up with.”

I grin at her. “But it’s more fun that way.”

She sets her menu aside. Did I imagine the lip twitch this time?

“You know what you’re getting? I’m thinking the country special. The bacon isCanadian,” I stage whisper. “Very fancy.”

Okay, definitely a twitch that time. “I don’t need anything.”

“Already ate?”

She nods, looking out the window. Unfortunately, her stomach chooses that moment to let out a loud grumble, protesting her statement.

“I won’t think less of you if you have a second dinner. It works for hobbits.”

“That’s second breakfast,” she says, her cheeks pinkening. “And I’m fine.”

“You guys ready to order?” a waitress interrupts, apparently with little time for pleasantries. Looking at her nametag, I’m disappointed it’s not the infamous Kate.

Another waitress walks behind her holding two platters filled with greasy breakfast goodness, the aroma of fried hash browns and crispy bacon wafting over us. Oh yes, come to Papa.

Lexie stares longingly after her, stomach grumbling once more.

“I’ll have two country specials,” I tell the woman. “One with sausage, home fries, and pancakes, the other with Canadian bacon, hash browns, and waffles. Scrambled eggs with both and orange juice to drink.”

The server doesn’t bat an eye, turning to Lexie next. “And you?”

“Nothing, thanks,” she says, handing her the menus. She waits till we’re alone to ask me, “Are you seriously going to eat all that?”

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