Page 11 of Marc

Shaking my head, I say, “I can’t ask you to do all of that. Gas is expensive, and it might be out of your way.”

I expect him to come up with a million excuses as to why it is no big deal and how it isn’t out of the way, even though he has no clue of where I live.

What he says catches me off guard and makes me like him even more.

“Your safety is more important than a couple gallons of gas.”

Emotion swells up inside of me as tears threaten to form in my eyes. No one has ever said something so sweet and meaningful to me before.

Not even my ex-husband when I was married to him.

I get into the passenger seat and let the leather cool my skin. The ride is quiet as we are both consumed with our own thoughts.

Marc parks the car in front of an older, small diner.

The outside looks like a traditional brick building with a few large glass pane windows while the inside transports you back in the day to a traditional 1950s diner.

Red and white leather booths line the walls while red stools sit in front of the long counter separating the kitchen area from the customer area.

The floors are even black-and-white checkered like the diners were back then.

Marc grabs my hand and pulls me towards the booth in the back corner of the diner. The small touch sends electricity pulsing through my body and disappointment floods my veins when he lets go.

“This is so amazing. I didn’t know these types of diners still existed.” I glance around at the decor and smile when my gaze floats over the old-fashioned jukebox.

“This is my favorite late-night joint. I come herewhen I have a late in the day photoshoot, or when I don’t have plans. They have the best food, too. Everything is delicious.”

Marc grabs a menu from behind the napkin dispenser and hands it to me.

“Thank you.” I offer him an appreciative smile.

Looking over the menu, I see they have traditional burgers, sandwiches, and shakes.

Marc is as giddy as a child. “I always get a cheeseburger all the way, seasoned fries, and a chocolate milkshake. The milkshake actually compliments the burger.”

My gaze flits over the pictures on the menu. “Everything looks incredible.”

How will I decide on something when my stomach wants to try everything?

An older woman comes over to take our order.

“You’re usual?” She asks Marc; he nods.

Turning to face me, she asks, “Same for you?”

“Uh, sure. Why not?”

If Marc likes his usual, then I’m sure I will, too. Plus, it did sound good- a little sweet to match the savory and cut the grease.

“Great. It will be up in just a few minutes.”

The waitress walks to the flat top grill and hangs up the order sheet in front of the cook before grabbing two milkshake glasses and bringing them to the milkshake machine.

“I’ll be right back,” Marc says, sliding out of the booth before heading to the jukebox.

I unashamedly stare at the way his jeans hug hisass, the way his shirt clings to his arms, and the way his muscles ripple with every little movement.

He presses a couple of keys and I watch as the disc changes and a fun, upbeat song comes on.

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