Page 18 of Riding with the Secret Billionaire

"Too bad," she says, eyeing the football stadium visible through the window. "Big game tonight. Whole town'll be celebrating after we crush the Eagles."

"I'm sure it'll be very exciting," I say politely.

After she takes our orders, a burger for me, grilled chicken for Jake, we fall into surprisingly comfortable conversation. The awkwardness from the motel room has dissipated, replaced by the easy rapport we've been developing over the past two days.

"Do you have siblings?" I ask, genuinely curious about Jake's background.

"One sister," he says. "Younger. She lives in Seattle with her husband and two kids."

"Are you close?"

"As close as we can be with the distance. I try to visit for major holidays when work allows." He takes a sip of his water. "You?"

"Only child," I reply. "Explains my control issues, probably. Never had to share toys or attention."

His mouth quirks in that almost-smile that's becoming familiar. "Not all only children have control issues."

"True. Some just become incredibly independent and self-sufficient instead." I pause, then add, "Like you, I'm guessing?"

He studies me for a moment. "My parents died when I was sixteen. Car accident. My sister was twelve. We went to live with our aunt, but she was... not equipped for suddenly having two teenagers."

The simple statement, delivered without self-pity, creates a tightness in my chest. "I'm sorry, Jake."

He shrugs. "It was a long time ago."

"Still," I say softly. "Losing parents is hard at any age."

Something shifts in his expression, a softening around the eyes that makes him look younger somehow. "Yes, it is."

Our food arrives, breaking the momentary intimacy of the exchange. As we eat, the conversation turns to lighter topics like favorite books, movies, places we've visited. It's strangely normal, sitting in this small-town diner with a man I've known for barely forty-eight hours, discussing whether The Godfather is superior to Goodfellas, because of course it is, and Jake agrees.

"Can I ask you something potentially uncomfortable?" I venture as we finish our meal.

His expression turns guarded. "You can ask."

"Why ride share? Really?" I lean forward, keeping my voice low. "You're clearly successful in your security work. You've traveled extensively. You have resources. So why pick up strangers and drive them across the country?"

Jake is quiet for a long moment, considering. "The honest answer?"

"Please."

"Control," he says finally. "When I'm driving, I'm in control of the situation. The route, the stops, the vehicle itself. It's... calming, in a way other things aren't."

"But why add passengers to the equation? Wouldn't driving alone be more controlled?"

"You'd think so," he concedes. "But there's something about the specific parameters of a ride share arrangement. Clear expectations. Defined roles. Beginning and end points established in advance."

Understanding dawns. "It's a controlled form of human interaction."

His eyes meet mine, surprised and perhaps a little impressed. "Exactly."

"So, what happens when a passenger disrupts that control?" I can't help asking. "Someone who challenges your rules, changes your schedule, makes you take breakfast detours?"

Something flickers in his eyes--heat, frustration, interest, I can't quite tell. "That depends on the passenger," he says carefully. "And how the disruption manifests."

The air between us thickens with unspoken tension. I'm suddenly acutely aware of the narrowness of the table separating us, his gaze meets mine, and my pulse quickens.

"And in my case?" I press, feeling bold. "How is my disruption manifesting?"

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