Chapter 19 #3
“Friends who enjoy breakfast for dinner, crave hashbrown casserole, and love the nostalgia…”
Tate yanked his helmet off, holding the bike steady as she awkwardly climbed off again – this time remaining standing. He adjusted the handlebars, moving the wheel a bit, and put his helmet on the bike, before reaching for hers – which she’d just removed.
“Cracker Barrel,” she repeated flatly, her voice tinged with disbelief.
“My favorite - and nobody will recognize me,” he said simply – and took her hand like they were the best of friends.
Pulling her inside, she was instantly flooded with memories as a child of sticks of candy, the little triangle board games with pegs, and her grandmother ordering her favorite meal with the tiny little corn muffins.
She swallowed back the lump in her throat, missing her in that moment…
and wishing she could ask her for advice like Tate had his own parents.
“I hope you know we’re not leaving here without some cherry sticks,” she warned, pointing at the jars of different flavored candies.
“Your cherry sticks – and my buckeyes,” he smiled and winked at her, pulling her forward again toward the hostess stand. “Two, please – by the fireplace, if it’s burning.”
“Yes, sir.”
Nettie followed Tate as they were quietly seated at a nearby table with the fireplace roaring about ten feet from them. He sat down, handed her a menu, and began looking at his own – all the while, not saying a word.
“What are we doing here?”
“I plan on eating,” he said simply. “If I’m eating, then I’m not talking about us.”
“You’re mocking me.”
“No, I’m abiding by your wishes but indulging in some of my own.”
“And what’s that – going out with me?”
“We’re not dating, remember?” he said without looking up from his menu. “Hashbrown casserole – and a platter of home-cooked food.”
“Ugh,” she huffed in frustration, blocking him out with her own menu.
“Fine. We’ll do this your way.” Her eyes flicked over the menu and briefly glanced up to see him holding up his menu, but his eyes met hers every time, causing her to look away.
As the waitress arrived at their table a few moments later, she smiled sweetly at them.
“Y’all want some coffee?”
“Please,” Tate said.
“Iced tea,” Nettie replied, biting her tongue because she had to be different. She was craving a hot cup of coffee, but refused to order the same thing as him.
“Are you sure, honey? I saw y’all getting off that motorcycle, and I know you must be cold…” the waitress said politely. “Would you prefer a hot apple cider?”
“Coffee is fine,” Nettie muttered – and looked away from Tate’s knowing smile.
As the waitress left, she unfurled her napkin just to keep herself busy and stop looking at him.
What was it about the cursed man that drew her to him like a magnet?
He was bitter, grumpy, almost always snapping at people, and she looked up to see him watching her with a gentleness that was surprising. “What?”
“I can’t tell what I like more,” he said simply, picking up the pegboard game that was on every table. “The fire flickering over there – or the one in your eyes…”
“Are you coming onto me?” she asked, squinting at him skeptically.
“I was commenting on the fire,” he shrugged evasively and focused on playing his game. She watched silently for a few moments and then started to open her mouth – before shutting it. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You were going to say something,” he prompted.
“But we’re not talking,” she said loftily, crossing her arms and turning her head away. “Even if you are missing an obvious move.”
“Show me.”
“No.”
“Because you want to see me fail?”
“No, because that would involve talking and playing the game together, which we aren’t, because I’m still mad.”
“Now, hold on a second,” Tate began. “Are you mad at me because I didn’t string you along during a long-distance relationship when you were a teenager and I was entering college, or are you mad because I gave you the car?
Or,” he paused again. “Are you mad because you still want me like crazy and hate that you are facing that fact now?”
“You’re annoying.”
“So, it’s answer number three,” he chuckled. “You want me, but don’t want to admit it to yourself.”
“No – it’s all the above.”
“Including number three.”
“Excluding number three.”
“Sure.”
“It’s true.”
“That you want me? Oh, I know – but – we’re not talking,” Tate said, replacing the pegs in the board once more and starting the game again.
Every time he would move one of the little pegs, he’d look at her for approval.
She hated that it felt like he was gloating, that he had the upper hand, and when he was about to move a peg – she grabbed the board, took the peg from him, and placed it in a different spot.
“We’re not talking,” she said glumly, moving to play the game in his place. “We’re not talking because we always end up at each other’s throats, and I can’t keep up with the mind games coming off of you in waves.”
“Fair enough,” he said simply, tapping the empty spot for her to place the peg – and she did. “I hate that every time I’m making an attempt to draw you into a conversation, a moment, or reach out to you, it feels like I’m getting slapped down into the dirt for existing.”
“I don’t do that.”
“The fruit basket,” he said pointedly.
“That was you?” she harrumphed in disbelief, rolling her eyes. “Fruit soup.”
Tate’s brows knitted together, his mouth parting as if she’d spoken a foreign language. “What do you mean, ‘fruit soup’?”
She pressed her lips together, fighting to keep her expression neutral, but the memory of that soggy disaster was too ridiculous not to bubble up. “I thought it might have been, but I wasn’t sure…” Her voice trailed off as her irritation came flooding back.
“So you didn’t ask?” His tone was more accusative than questioning.
“No,” she said, lifting her chin with indignation. “Because I thought, ‘Surely Tate wouldn’t leave this in the rain for hours…’”
“I wouldn’t,” he protested, his eyes going wide, almost boyish in their offense.
Her laugh had no humor in it this time. “It was full of water, Tate. The paper was mush. And the bananas?” She leaned forward, lowering her voice as if confiding some great crime. “Smashed. Because I tripped over the stupid thing and—”
“And that’s my fault?” he cut in, indignation flaring.
“I paid for delivery! And I wish you had said something, because I would have asked to have it replaced.” He shook his head, a hand dragging through his hair in frustration.
“I’ve never paid ninety-nine bucks for two apples, two oranges, a few bananas, and about six feet of ribbon—but for you, I would. ”
Her chest gave a little squeeze at the admission, but Nettie wasn’t about to let him see that. She crossed her arms, tossing him a sharp look. “Nobody asked you to.”
“Maybe I wanted to.”
His words landed between them like a stone in water, rippling outward in the silence that followed. Nettie’s heartbeat stuttered as warmth crept uninvited into her cheeks. She scrambled to find her footing, to protect herself with sarcasm like she always did.
“Why?” she demanded, the single word heavy with suspicion.
Tate exhaled hard, like he’d been holding that breath for years. His voice cracked with frustration, but beneath it was something rawer, something that made Nettie’s stomach twist. “I’m trying to get you to notice me, dang it.”
Her laugh this time was too loud, too defensive. “I’m noticing—I’m noticing a lot!”
“And?” His gaze burned into her, stubborn, unrelenting.
“And what?” she shot back, meeting his stare with all the sharpness she could muster.
They sat frozen, glaring at each other across the small table, the tension between them tightening like a rope about to snap. Neither one wanted to yield.
Then came the discreet but pointed clearing of a throat.
The waitress.
Her notepad was clutched to her chest like a shield, eyes darting nervously between the two of them. “What would you two like to order—or should I come back?”
“Yes!” Tate snapped, his voice too quick, too hard.
“No. I’m ready and I’m starving,” Nettie said at the exact same time, her words tumbling over his. She offered the waitress her brightest smile, ignoring the way Tate stiffened across from her.
“I thought you weren’t hungry?” he muttered, his tone low, edged.
“I thought we weren’t talking,” she countered sweetly, cutting her eyes away from him and back to the waitress, who was visibly regretting her career choices. “I’d love the veggie plate—with turnip greens, sliced tomatoes, and lima beans…”
Tate groaned under his breath. “All things I hate.”
“They aren’t for you,” Nettie snapped, her smile now saccharine. “So maybe you’ll leave my plate alone. Oh—and a side of hashbrown casserole.”
The waitress scribbled quickly, eager to escape, and then turned to Tate. He rattled off an order that could have fed half the restaurant. Nettie didn’t bother hiding her smirk when he finally shoved the menu away.
When she finally dared to glance up, she caught the subtle release of a breath from his lips.
It wasn’t just a sigh—it was something heavier, more tired, the kind that carried a thousand unspoken words.
His broad shoulders slumped forward as though the fight had gone out of him, and in that instant, he looked more human, more breakable, than she ever remembered him being.
Her heart betrayed her, thudding hard against her ribs.
“I didn’t want tonight to be like this,” he said at last, his voice quiet.
The softness disarmed her. Tate was supposed to be loud, unshakable, always quick with some sharp-edged retort to keep her at arm’s length. But this voice—the one carrying apology, regret, maybe even hope—made the defenses she’d carefully constructed wobble.
Her lashes fluttered, her chest tight. And then his hand shifted, bridging the space between them. Slowly, deliberately, his fingers brushed against hers on the table.
Nettie froze. His skin was warm. Steady. Her fingers twitched instinctively, as though they might pull back, but they didn’t. They stayed, trembling against his.
“How did you want tonight to go?” she whispered. The fire that usually colored her tone had dimmed, replaced by something softer, more uncertain. Something she hated to admit she felt—yet couldn’t deny.
His eyes rose to meet hers, and for the first time that evening, the cocky bravado was gone. The teasing smirks, the armor he wore so easily—they had vanished. What remained was sincerity. Raw, startling sincerity.
“I wanted to spend some time with you,” he said.
His thumb shifted, not quite a caress but close enough that she noticed.
“To hang out with you, to be close, and enjoy a moment together that doesn’t involve me on the ice fighting to score a point.
I get tired of the fighting, the bickering, and when we rode together… ”
He paused, and for just a flicker, a smile ghosted his lips.
“It was really nice.”
The words pierced through her, finding the vulnerable places she tried so hard to shield. She’d told herself a thousand times that what happened between them didn’t matter, that she wouldn’t let him close again. And yet here he was, pushing past her defenses with nothing more than quiet honesty.
“It was,” she admitted, the confession slipping out before she could stop it.
Almost without realizing, her thumb brushed against the back of his hand.
The motion was instinctual, reckless, and dangerous.
But it was also honest. “I know I’m difficult.
I know there are hard feelings between us, but I feel like every time I try to start again—something happens. ”
Something always happened.
A wrong word.
A careless joke that hit too close to home— something.
“What if we stopped fighting and just let this happen?” he murmured, his gaze locked on hers with an intensity that made her breath hitch. “We’re not children, we’re not teenagers, we’re adults with very different lives now.”
Her throat tightened. “And now you think you are finally ready for something to happen between us?”
“What if it did? What if we became friends, talked, or…” He let the thought hang in the air, unfinished but heavy with possibility.
“Didn’t we already discuss this… and we still ended up arguing,” she reminded him, her voice low but firm. “I think we’re too different.”
“I thought opposites attract?” His tone had sharpened, but not with sarcasm—with conviction. His dark eyes deepened, their intensity pulling her in against her better judgment. “I’m very, very attracted to you, Sticks…”
Her breath caught, heat curling through her chest. That nickname landed differently this time. It shook something loose inside her, something she wasn’t ready to name.
“And for tonight, let’s just pretend,” he offered, the faintest edge of a plea threading his words. “We made it without fighting on the way here, let’s have a nice meal in peace, and then we’ll ride home together—again without fighting. Let’s see what that would feel like.”
“Fine,” she whispered, though the word came out softer than she intended. Almost tender. His fingers tightened just slightly around hers, steadying her, anchoring her. “Let’s see what a relationship would feel like if we attempted this.”
“You’re in?” he asked, the hope in his voice startling her.
“I’m in—are you?”
“Yup.”
Her lips twitched despite herself. “Should one of us say ‘Round One – fight’?”
“I’d prefer a little something different,” he chuckled, the sound low and warm. Then he threaded his fingers fully through hers, holding them there. His brown eyes softened into something that made her chest ache. “Try something else?”
Her pulse drummed in her ears. She could hardly breathe as the words tumbled from her lips. “Once upon a time,” she said, her voice barely more than breath, her gaze locked on his with staggering intensity. “There was a boy and a young girl…”
“Who waited for their moment,” he whispered, leaning in, his expression carved with something so earnest it nearly unraveled her. “And maybe it’s finally time.”
Her heart turned over, breaking and mending all at once.
“Maybe it is, Tate.”