Page 38 of Fish out of Water
My evening had taken a one-eighty. Going from spending it across from a leggy blonde with an affinity for good wine at a candle-lit table in one of the area’s swankiest restaurants, to sweating at a picnic table atDave’s Tots and Wieners.
“Let’s go stick some wieners in our mouths then.”
Julia cackled, head thrown back as I shoved open my door and climbed out, circling the car to open her door.
“Thanks.” She carefully worked her way out. “I couldn’t find the handle.”
I pointed to the lever that opened the door, flipping it with two fingers. “Right here.”
She squinted down at it. “It blends right in, doesn’t it?”
“That’s the point, Banana Pants.” I closed her door and looked toward the menu board painted in the same style as the sign. “What’s good here?”
“All of it.” She didn’t even look at the board. “When I first moved here I spent a month trying every hotdog they make.”
My attention pulled from the board. “You’re not from here?”
She snorted out a little laugh. “Uh, no.”
That was about the first thing that made sense since I rolled into the parking lot at Sweet Side Apartments. “Where are you from?”
“North Dakota.”
“You’re a long way from home, Dorothy.”
Julia shook her head, her expression turning almost sad. “No I’m not.”
I didn’t like the change in her. Didn’t like that I caused it.
Didn’t like that I couldn’t ask why it happened.
I tipped my head toward the order window. “I’ll eat whatever you pick.”
Her smile came back almost immediately. “How many wieners are you going to stick in your mouth tonight, Grant?”
“Three.”
Her smile widened. “Impressive.” She turned toward the window, peeking my way over one shoulder. “That’s more than I can put in my mouth in one night.”
Chapter Nine
Julia
GRANT LINED THE food down the center of the picnic table.
I’d ordered all my favorites. The Boston Dog. The Enchilada Dog. The Porky Dog. The Loose Meat Dog.
And the Jalapeno dog.
“Which ones do you want?” I was stupidly excited about this. I’d been dying to bring someone here, but high blood pressure and cholesterol limited my list of possible candidates to nearly nonexistent.
Grant stared down at the dogs, his brows coming together.
Well shit. Maybe Grant was a picky eater.
He held up one finger and backed toward the ordering window.
A second later the woman working inside passed out a plastic knife.
