I couldn’t deny he had the kind of face and confidence that stopped most women in their tracks. I guessed he must’ve been used to it, the sudden pause in a person’s natural expression when they looked his way, followed by overcompensating with a nonchalant gaze and a weak smile—or, in our waitress’s case, blushing and soft giggles—because he didn’t bask in it like I theorized he would.
Actually, it was almost as if he didn’t even notice.
But how is that possible?
Our waitress was on the “this guy is fucking hot” train, telepathically screaming, “All aboard, here’s my ticket, and where should I put my pants?”
Internally, I scoffed.
“I’ll give you a moment to look at the menu,” she finally said, her eyes still fixated on Reed.
“I know what I want,” I announced without hesitation or concern if he still needed that offered moment to peruse the meal selections. “I’ll start off with the baked mac ’n’ cheese and fried pickles,” I said and pointed at the appetizer section on the menu. “And then,” I singsonged as my finger slid to the meal options, “I’ll have the barbecue chicken sandwich and the brisket.”
Her brow furrowed in confusion as she scribbled down my ridiculous order. “Uh…and what would you like to drink?”
“A Coke to drink, please.” I smiled sweetly. “Oh, and can you add a double order of fries to the brisket?”
“Yeah…but…” She paused in hesitation. “That’s a lot of fries.”
“Fantastic,” I said, and my eyes met Reed’s. “I’ll take it.”
No big eyes or furrowed brow, he didn’t give me the reaction I wanted. His expression remained relaxed and calm, like it was the most normal thing in the world for a human being to order two appetizers and two meals for dinner.
I hated how much that intrigued me.
“Hungry?” he asked when the waitress finally sopped up her arousal and headed for the bar.
“I’m starving, but don’t worry,” I said and patted my stomach, “I’ll save room for dessert.”
He smirked but didn’t offer any sort of rebuttal or sarcastic retort. Instead, he glanced at the bike helmet sitting beside my feet and then out toward the window. His eyes met mine again. “How did you get here?”
“Dais—” I started to say, but quickly corrected, “My bike.”
“Dais?” he repeated in question.
Of course, he noticed that little slipup. The least he could have done was politely ignore it.
God, this guy was annoying. He wasn’t following the normal rules of social interactions, and that didn’t fucking help me strike preemptively.
Looking like a regular—albeit, irritatingly attractive—douchebag, but refusing to follow my bait?
He was unlike anyone I’d ever met.
And did I mention I hated him? I did.
“Daisy,” I admitted in a bitchy tone. “My bike.”
“You named your bike?”
“Is that a problem for you?” I questioned with a challenging raise of my eyebrow. “Are you going to post another video about why humans are too materialistic and use my penchant for naming my bike as proof?”
He grinned, and I immediately wanted to smack that grin straight off his face. He didn’t let my cloud of anger phase him, though.
“Why’d you name your bike, Lola?”
“Why’d you post a poorly recorded YouTube video and bash my column, Reed?” I retorted, but my sarcastic words didn’t hit a nerve. Nope, they did the exact opposite and made that naturally confident smile of his grow wider.
“So, it’s safe to assume you’re not a fan of my video.”
“Uh. Yeah.” A baffled laugh escaped my lips. “I’d say that’s a pretty fucking safe assumption.”
“It appears that it irritated you.”
Appears that it irritated me? I’d love to know the person who could watch a video like that, about their column, and not be irritated.
I ignored his fondness for stating the obvious and asked the one thing I wanted to know. “Why’d you post it?”
He shrugged. “I had an opinion, and I had the urge to speak my opinion.”
“Do you make a point to give in to all of your urges, no matter how fucking ludicrous they are?”
His lips quirked up, and soft lines appeared at the corners of his cheeks. “Are we still talking about the video? Or have we veered off toward a different kind of topic?”
“First of all, if you’re insinuating that I was just asking you about sexual urges, you can stop right there,” I scoffed and held up a determined hand. “I do not currently, nor will I ever, want to know about your sexual urges.”