Page 28 of When It's Us
I pick up my fork, dunk it into the dressing, then stab it into a chunk of chicken, before popping the bite into my mouth. The tangy, slightly peppery flavor hits my tongue, and while it’s good, I can’t help but eye the heaping plate of fries next to Hutch’s burger. I can’t remember the last time I had French fries.
We eat in silence for a couple of minutes before Hutch wipes his mouth with his napkin and speaks.
“So, California, what do you do for you?”
I glance up at him, my fork halfway to my open mouth. Instead of taking a bite, I lower it and ask, “For me?”
He nods. “Yes. For you.”
I’m confused. Not by his question, but why he’s asking. It’s…weird.
My gaze is skeptical. “Why?”
He finishes chewing the bite of burger and leans back, his eyes assessing as he wipes his fingers on his napkin. “Just making friendly conversation.”
I hum softly and shrug. “Work,” I say, shoving a bite of salad into my mouth.
He watches me chew for a couple of seconds, then sits forward, forearms resting on the edge of the table.
“Besides work,” he says, picking up and dragging a French fry through the ketchup on his plate and popping it into his mouth. “What do you do to relax? Unwind?”
I let out a long sigh, looking around as if I can conjure an answer from thin air. “I don’t know. Nothing really?”
He crocks a brow at me, tone dry. “Nothing.”
I set my fork down with a clang when I realize he wants to have an actual conversation. “I don’t have a lot of time forme.” I hate that the emphasis on those two words makes me sound slightly resentful, but it’s the truth. “I have Tate and Jordan, and they take up a lot of my free time.”
He nods and swipes up another fry. “Do you read?”
I shake my head. I always fall asleep. “Not much.”
“Movies?” he asks, popping the fry into his mouth.
“No,” I pause, “unless you count Pokémon and SpongeBob.”
“Outdoorsy stuff? Surfing, kayaking, cliff diving?” he rattles off.
I shoot him a look. “Do I look like the kind of person to willingly jump off a fifty-foot cliff to my death?”
He laughs at that. “Point taken.” I feel his big foot nudge my slide under the table. “Come on. There’s got to be something you do for fun,” he presses.
I look around again, willing anything to come to mind. I always had fun when Wren and I used to get Mexican food. How sad that the only thing I can think of hasn’t happened in over two years and involves stuffing my face. My mother’s words float back to me.
Are you putting on weight?
“I like margaritas.”
His eyebrows shift up his forehead, a mega-watt grin lighting up his face. Goddamn, he really is fucking fantastic to look at.
Bad vagina. Down girl.
His voice is low and dripping with innuendo when he speaks again. “Never pegged you for a tequila girl, California. Then again, if someone had told me all about that little butterfly you keep hidden, I’d never have believed that either.”
My entire body flushes with heat at the memory of him bending me over the shoddy workbench on Wren’s newly finished deck eight months ago and burying his face between my ass cheeks.
Fuck.
I swallow hard and drop my eyes to my plate. I hadn’t even thought about the butterfly tattoo that night. I mean, I knew I had it, but it’s not something I think about all the time, seeing as how I don’t look at my lower back in the mirror daily.
