Chapter 11 Ginger
Ginger
The diner isn’t far, and my stomach growls as we pull into the parking lot ten minutes later.
We head inside—me on very painful feet that are slowly starting to feel better due to the gentle and surprisingly thoughtful care the giant in front of me took with them.
I’m immediately hit with a wall of the most delicious scents I’ve ever experienced. Everything smells fried, and I swear I can hear my arteries clogging up just breathing the air.
A waitress in a white button front dress uniform covered in a blue and white striped apron calls out to us as she passes by, two trays laden with food in her hands.
“Sit where you like, and someone will be with you shortly.”
I follow behind Hutch, keeping a safe distance from him and all that muscle.
Filthy images of him back at the campsite, stripping out of his pants, run through my mind.
I’d turned around to get my own change of clothes and robbed myself of the sight of all those intricate tattoos and bronzed golden skin.
God, I have got to get a fucking grip.
I clear my throat and pick up a menu after sliding into the red vinyl booth across from him.
A glance around tells me that this is one of those old-timey diners with tiny juke boxes at every table, and the servers and kitchen staff are all dressed era appropriately.
It’s kind of cute in a cheerful, kitschy kind of way.
The menus are huge, made of thick cardstock, and covered in those plastic folder things. As I open them, I wonder when the last time these things were wiped down, hoping it was more recent than not. I’ll order and then wash my hands. I haven’t since we hiked anyway, so they could use it.
It takes almost no time for Hutch to peruse the menu and then close it, sliding it to the end of the table. I glance up at him, but his gaze is fixed out the window. I look over the menu while the waitress who greeted us saunters up to the table.
“Hey there,” she says cheerfully. “Can I get y’all something to drink?” Her accent is definitely southern, something I hadn’t noticed when we first arrived, and when I look up at her, she’s got her glass-eyed gaze fixed on the man across from me, a wide grin on her face.
“Water’s good for me,” he says and meets my eyes over my menu.
“Water is fine for me too, thanks,” I say.
The waitress bobs her head, never taking her eyes off Hutch. “Ya’ll ready to order?”
Hutch glances at me again, and I nod.
“I’ll take the chicken Caesar salad, dressing on the side,” I tell the waitress, who slides her gaze my way.
“Grilled or crispy chicken?” she asks, scratching the order on the little notebook in her hand.
“Gilled, please,” I say, closing my menu and setting it on the one Hutch used.
“And for you, doll?” she asks him, her voice sweet and cloying. It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes.
But Hutch shoots her a smile and orders a cheeseburger with no tomatoes, French fries, and a chocolate milkshake. The order takes me by surprise because I totally took him for a bit of a health nut. With a body like that, who wouldn’t?
“I’ll be right back with your waters,” the waitress says with a wink in his direction.
I let out a light laugh, shaking my head.
“What?” Hutch asks, long fingers unwrapping his silverware from the little paper napkin ring. He lines the utensils up on top of the napkin, then slings one arm over the back of the booth as he meets my gaze.
I study him for a beat or two. He genuinely looks unaware.
Does he truly have zero idea of his effect on women?
No. He has to know. He’s the cockiest man I know.
The giant asshole smells like cedar and leather, and it makes me want to ride him like a fucking bronco.
His hands are calloused and huge, and I imagine one wrapped around my throat while the other does delicious shit to my lady bits. He has to know.
“You really don’t see it, do you?” I ask, incredulous.
“See what?” he asks, scratching at his bearded jaw.
I lean over the table and whisper, “She was clearly trying to get your attention. And not to order food.”
He flicks an uninterested glance at the waitress who has made her way across the diner to take an order at another table.
He lifts a beefy shoulder.
“Oh God, it happens so much you don’t even notice it,” I say more to myself than to him.
The smirk on his face when I raise my eyes to his tells me he knows exactly what I’m talking about.
“Don’t you get tired of women treating you like a piece of meat?” There’s an edge to my voice and I’m not sure why.
“She’s harmless,” he says nonchalantly.
I study his face for a second and then huff out a breath. Why do I care, anyway? Am I defensive of him or is it something more? Something I really don’t want to unpack right now, especially when he’s looking at me like that and the image of him pantsless is so fresh on my mind.
I’m pulled from thoughts of his muscular thighs and the light brown hair that dusts them when my phone dings in my crossbody bag. I unzip it and pull out my phone, seeing a text from Peter.
Oh, thank God.
I swipe into the message, relief bubbling up, but anxiety follows close on its heels. I hope everything is okay.
Peter: Hey. Sorry about the late reply. Something happened with our carrier, and we only now got cell service. The boys are swimming, but I’ll have them call you tonight.
Relief sweeps through me, and I let out a body-wide sigh.
Hutch must sense the tension leaving me because he quirks a brow at me. “Everything good?”
I nod and tap out a quick text, letting Peter know I might not have service and that I’ll explain later, and to kiss the boys for me. He sends back a winky emoji and ‘hope you’re doing something fun!’
“They’re good. Something about Peter’s cell carrier being wonky,” I tell Hutch.
He nods as the waitress comes back with our water and food. She sets Hutch’s plate and milkshake in front of him with a smile and then deposits mine in front of me with a quick glance in my direction before dropping off our waters.
“Can I get you anything else, honey?” The question is, of course, directed at Hutch, and he shakes his head with a nod in my direction.
The waitress barely acknowledges the shake of my head and then saunters off again.
I pick up my fork, dunk it into the dressing, then stab it into a chunk of chicken, before popping the bite into my mouth.
The tangy, slightly peppery flavor hits my tongue, and while it’s good, I can’t help but eye the heaping plate of fries next to Hutch’s burger.
I can’t remember the last time I had French fries.
We eat in silence for a couple of minutes before Hutch wipes his mouth with his napkin and speaks.
“So, California, what do you do for you?”
I glance up at him, my fork halfway to my open mouth. Instead of taking a bite, I lower it and ask, “For me?”
He nods. “Yes. For you.”
I’m confused. Not by his question, but why he’s asking. It’s…weird.
My gaze is skeptical. “Why?”
He finishes chewing the bite of burger and leans back, his eyes assessing as he wipes his fingers on his napkin. “Just making friendly conversation.”
I hum softly and shrug. “Work,” I say, shoving a bite of salad into my mouth.
He watches me chew for a couple of seconds, then sits forward, forearms resting on the edge of the table.
“Besides work,” he says, picking up and dragging a French fry through the ketchup on his plate and popping it into his mouth. “What do you do to relax? Unwind?”
I let out a long sigh, looking around as if I can conjure an answer from thin air. “I don’t know. Nothing really?”
He crocks a brow at me, tone dry. “Nothing.”
I set my fork down with a clang when I realize he wants to have an actual conversation. “I don’t have a lot of time for me.” I hate that the emphasis on those two words makes me sound slightly resentful, but it’s the truth. “I have Tate and Jordan, and they take up a lot of my free time.”
He nods and swipes up another fry. “Do you read?”
I shake my head. I always fall asleep. “Not much.”
“Movies?” he asks, popping the fry into his mouth.
“No,” I pause, “unless you count Pokémon and SpongeBob.”
“Outdoorsy stuff? Surfing, kayaking, cliff diving?” he rattles off.
I shoot him a look. “Do I look like the kind of person to willingly jump off a fifty-foot cliff to my death?”
He laughs at that. “Point taken.” I feel his big foot nudge my slide under the table. “Come on. There’s got to be something you do for fun,” he presses.
I look around again, willing anything to come to mind. I always had fun when Wren and I used to get Mexican food. How sad that the only thing I can think of hasn’t happened in over two years and involves stuffing my face. My mother’s words float back to me.
Are you putting on weight?
“I like margaritas.”
His eyebrows shift up his forehead, a mega-watt grin lighting up his face. Goddamn, he really is fucking fantastic to look at.
Bad vagina. Down girl.
His voice is low and dripping with innuendo when he speaks again. “Never pegged you for a tequila girl, California. Then again, if someone had told me all about that little butterfly you keep hidden, I’d never have believed that either.”
My entire body flushes with heat at the memory of him bending me over the shoddy workbench on Wren’s newly finished deck eight months ago and burying his face between my ass cheeks.
Fuck.
I swallow hard and drop my eyes to my plate. I hadn’t even thought about the butterfly tattoo that night. I mean, I knew I had it, but it’s not something I think about all the time, seeing as how I don’t look at my lower back in the mirror daily.
“Look at me.” His tone is dominating, sending a delicious swirl of anticipation to my gut. Then his words are like velvet when he whispers, “What else do you like that I don’t know about?”
I dare to look up at him, my eyes taking a long sweep from his corded biceps covered in tattoos to his barrel chest, up his neck to his short, cropped beard until my icy blue eyes meet his denim ones.
God, if he only knew. He’d probably run out of here faster than I could say ‘tie me up and fuck me’.
“Chips and queso,” I breathe out instead, sultry and low.
His bark of laughter makes the corner of my lips twitch, and he picks up his burger, taking a bite with a wink.
Going to have to be careful with this one.