Page 26 of Heart Stopping
Once again, I was reminded of an energetic, golden retriever. One who ate everything in sight before running circles around everyone. Literally.
"I can pay for mine," I started to say, but he already tapped his card and paid for everything.
"Fuck," he whispered, his card halfway back to his wallet. "I feel like I'm really screwing this up."
"You're not." I put a hand on his arm, surprised by how hard his bicep was. Apparently he did other exercise as well as running around in circles. A lot of it, from the feel of him.
"I owe you for all those milkshakes and lunch." He pushed his wallet into the back of his dark jeans and handed me the bag of pretzels.
"Let's call it even." I opened the bag, pulled one out and handed it back to him. The delicious scent of baked and boiled bread tickled my nose, making my mouth water.
"Deal." He pulled out a pretzel for himself and tapped it against mine, like we were toasting something. He took a bite and half-closed his eyes, groaning at the taste. "You were right, these are the best pretzels ever."
"Of course I'm right." I bit into mine and chewed, appreciating mine a little more subtly. "I know my pretzels."
He chuckled and led me away toward a food truck, this one serving—to the surprise of no one—milkshakes.
I shook my head when he asked if I wanted one, but he ordered a chocolate shake, the bag of pretzels tucked under his arm while he had his hands full with food and drink.
"It's not as good as yours." He sipped. "But it's still good."
"You really like those, don't you?" I ordered a soda and paid for mine before he could.
"I've never met a milkshake I didn't like," he agreed. "You must think it's weird. A guy my age still drinking milkshakes."
"I can't say I have an opinion about other people's drink choice," I said. "If that's what you like, the only person whose opinion matters is yours. Besides, you're not the only one your age who drinks them. Why do you think I have them on the menu?"
"For kids who eat there?" But he seemed to like my answer.
"Foranyonewho eats there," I said.
We found ourselves back at the bench, where we sat and ate in silence for a couple of minutes. Watching people walk past.
Tourists with phones in their hands, taking photos of, and with, everything. A couple of dads walking past hand in hand, a kid to either side of them. A couple of older women, laughing about something as they wandered past. Several bicycles carrying food orders. The usual hustle and bustle of the city.
"You've lived here all your life?" Cass asked. "I mean, you said you know your pretzels. I got the impression…"
"You got the right impression," I said. "I was born here. Never lived anywhere else."
I looked over at him. "I've travelled around the country and a bunch of other countries. I've never found anywhere else I wanted to live." I was almost certain my sister's killers still lived here. Or did business here. Even if I wanted to leave, I couldn't. Not until her memory was finally put to rest.
"What about you?" I asked.
"I've been here for about a year," he said. "I came from the West Coast. I needed a change. So I applied for a job here and I got it."
"There's not many changes bigger than moving to the other side of the country," I said.
"Sometimes it feels like a different planet," he said. "But I like it here." Color creeping up his cheeks again, he added, "I like it even better since I met you."
"You must really enjoy being flipped onto concrete," I said wryly.
"I didn't hate it," he admitted, mumbling a little. "It's not every day you get flipped by a beautiful woman."
"Are you sure about that?" I asked, teasing gently. "A guy like you, you probably have women lining up to flip you."
That drew a chuckle from him. "If there is, I don't know about it. I bet you have men lining up to be flipped."
"If there is, I feel sorry for them," I said. "If being flipped is the best they can get…"
