Page 9 of Trick Shot
“Wow. You must be pretty hungry then,” he says, making me realize that my internal tirade was, well, external.
Biker Dude sets two large glasses of water in front of me, and then adds a third, this one just full of ice.
Bless this man.
“Alright. What’ll it be?” Biker Dude asks.
Shit. I haven’t had time to look at the menu. I’m not even sure there is a menu.
“She’ll have a large order of fries, cheese on the side.”
Biker Dude, whose real name needs to be Smitty, nods and heads back to the kitchen while I turn my gaze on Pete. “Did you seriously just order for me?”
He shrugs and I swear to god there’s not one shred of audacity left in this world. He’s hoarding every bit that ever existed.
“Yeah, but you’ll thank me when your order gets here.”
I start to shake my head, but it hurts too much. “I won’t,” I tell him. “I can’t imagine a scenario where I will ever thank you again. You got one the other day and that was under duress. But it’s all you’re ever getting from me.”
Pete taps his meaty paw on his thick chest. “Then I’ll treasure it always.”
I’m sure he’s got a sarcastic grin on his stupidly handsome face, but all my attention is on his hands. They are giant. Beefy. I’ve never seen ham hocks, but the next time someone says ham hocks, I will think of Pete’s hands. Andnow that I’m thinking about it, ham hocks is the weirdest phrase ever. I can’t suppress a giggle.
“Something funny?” he asks.
“You have the hands of a giant,” I say, the words spilling out of my mouth before I can stop them.
Pete spreads his arms out and laughs. “I’m basically a giant. So…the hands fit the rest of me.”
Before I can think about what other parts of him are likely gigantic, too, Biker Dude drops off a basket of fries and a little tub of cheese sauce.
Pete’s grin is wide, and that pisses me off. “I’m still mad at you, just so we’re clear,” I tell him, picking up a piping hot fry and dipping it into the cup of cheesy goodness.
“When have you ever not been mad at me?” he asks.
“Fair point,” I concede, popping the fry into my mouth. There’s a burst of salty goodness, followed by a burning sensation that sears the roof of my mouth. Immediately, I start to fan myself, muttering, “Hot, hot,” as if recognizing that I’ve been burned will lessen the pain.
Pete, ever-fucking-helpful, hands me a glass of water.I take it, but only because I need it, and it’s the least he can do after ordering me blistering hot food.
And, yes, I know I sound ridiculous.
“You might want to wait until your food cools down a little,” he says, showing off that damn smile again.
Narrowing my eyes at him, I take another sip of water and wait for the feeling to return to the nerve-endings in my mouth. You know, the ones that weren’t singed off.
There’s a little plastic utensil in my basket that resembles a pitchfork. How convenient. I use it to push my fries around a bit, letting some steam escape, and then I point it at Pete’s face and give it a little wave.
The man just laughs. Is he a masochist or something?
After stirring my cheese sauce with the pitchfork, Idecide the fries might be safe to eat now, so I stab one—with way too much force—before dunking it and taking a tentative bite.
Oh. My. God.
This fry is the best thing I have ever put in my mouth. I mean, ever. A look of ecstasy washes over my face and I don’t even attempt to hide it.
“Told you,” my nemesis says smugly.
I scoff. “Even a broken clock is right twice a day.”
