Page 51 of Just a Plot Twist
“Yes. Bless Drake and the chefs.”
“Bless the food manufacturers.”
“And the farmers.”
“And the waves of wheat for the bun.”
I suppress a giggle. “And bless the teensy tiny mustard seed that gave us this delicious condiment.” I lick the bit of mustard sliding down the outside of my bun.
“Don’t forget the lettuce farmers.”
I raise what’s left of my burger in the air like I’m raising a glass to those brilliant lettuce farmers.
“And what about the cows?”
“Can we not talk about the cows right now?” I shoot back. “I’m enjoying this too much.” I reach down to adjust the ice pack that’s awkwardly positioned on my ankle. I discarded my shoes—supple, nude, slingback pumps withbarelya heel—on the floor of the car a while ago.
“Probably wise.”
I laugh and take another sip from my to-go cup of Coke. We’re silent as we finish our food and then lean back in our seats with contented sighs.
“I’m so full.” I rub my belly. One should not eat a cheeseburger in this dress.
Benson shed the suitcoat before we even arrived at the beach parking lot, and now he undoes the top two buttons of his white shirt and loosens the tie completely. It’s hanging around his neck like a silk rope of wonder, perfectly showcasing his golden-hued skin and collar bones.
It’s sexy. I wish I could take a photograph of that throat.
I wish I could nibble on it like I’m nibbling on these fries.
I gather the garbage and stuff it in the to-go bag to try to keep my mind off allthat. All thatneeds to be repressed now.
“How’s your ankle?”
Good. Let’s think about something besides his throat.
“It’s okay.”
At his dubious look, I finagle. “It is. I didn’t reinjure it or anything. Maybe it would be nice to sit on the beach, though, and stretch my legs out.”
His eyebrows lift. “You don’t want to go home yet?”
My mouth twists to one side, my eyes on my lap. “I don’t know. Do you?”
“I don’t know. Doyou?”
The lightness in his voice squeezes my stomach with something of a thrill.
I meet his gaze and shrug. “I’ve had fun with you, despite nearly getting bludgeoned by swans, falling flat on my back in a fancy dress in front of at least two hundred people, and embarrassing my grandparents in their one shining moment.”
“So, see? We can’t go home now. There’s so much to dissect.”
I smack a hand over my face. “No need to dissect. Please. Besides, you fell, too. Why are you not dying right now?”
“Maybe I am.”
The ease in his voice makes me drop my hand to look at him. But something in his expression tells me he’s not talking about dying of embarrassment. It’s like his gaze is prodding me to pick up on something else entirely.
Something zips down my middle—a woosh—so I turn to open my car door. The cool night air and the soft swishing sound of the waves in the darkness reach me as I rotate my legs and settle my feet on the sand. He tells me to wait so he can help, then darts out of the car and opens the trunk. By the time he’s reached my side with a big blanket, I’m standing on one foot, ice pack in hand.
