I follow him, but he reaches back and grabs my hand, interlacing our fingers. I take him in from the back. Jeans tight around his butt and thighs. Fitted long-sleeved henley. Baseball cap pulled low and turned backwards.
Kill me now with Cupid’s arrow.
He’s a freaking dream, not at all how I had him pegged in college.
He stands there casually waiting on a waitress to seat us like he doesn’t know what he does to a room just by standing in it.
Or maybe he does.
The platinum-haired waitress waves at us. “Sit anywhere you like. Be there in a sec.”
He turns and a faint curve touches his lips as he takes a few moments to look at me.
“Do you have a preference?”
“A booth.”
“Aww, something else we have in common. Do you want to sit on the same side?” he asks, teasing, I hope.
“No, only old people do that.”
Parker leads us to a booth at the end. We sit and have just opened our menus when the waitress, Becky, says, “Well I’ll be damned, if it isn’t Parker O’Ryan. How the hell have you been other than catching touchdowns.”
I watch Parker’s face. He doesn’t seem to know her but says, “Doing well. How about you?”
“Oh, you know. Do you remember Walter from highschool? We got married. I have two kids already and I'm just trying to make ends meet.”
His eyes light up with recognition. “I do. All that matters is that you’re happy. Are you?”
“Yep. Sometimes you have to give up some dreams for your family.”
Of course, I can’t let that go. “If you don’t mind me asking, what is your dream?”
“I wanted to be a travel agent but can’t be gone with two kids and a husband that works his ass off in the oil fields.” I see the wheels turning inside Parker’s head. “But I’m the best damn waitress outside of town. Want to hear the specials?”
He looks at me and I want to hear her list. I can tell she takes pride in her job. He nods and she goes on a rant of specials.
“She’ll have watermelon juice. I’ll have chocolate milk.”
Becky chuckles. “You always got two chocos in high school for lunch.”
“Yeah. Just give us whatever you think is the best thing the cook makes.”
The smile widens across her face. “You got it.” She takes our menus.
“You trust her.”
“I barely know her, but I want to see if she’s good at what she does.”
We sit for a moment. I don’t know whether to talk about work or what. “So… this is weird,” I say.
“A little. I haven’t been on a date where I asked a woman to dinner or breakfast in years,” he admits. “How long since you’ve been on a real date?”
I twiddle a sugar packet between my fingers, not wanting to answer that question.
“Anna?”
“Oh, umm… I guess I’ve never been on a real date. I’ve tried to hide for so long.”