“You’re pretty good at driving this tank.”
“They call me the smooth operator,” Dev says in his best corny-sexy voice.
I burst out laughing so hard, I start snorting.
Dev puts the car in park and turns off the engine, staring at me.
“You think that’s funny?”
I can’t answer him; I’m still laughing too hard. I just wave my arm at him and accidentally hit his shoulder. He acts like he has to duck away, like I’m abusing him.
Time to go. I need to get some fresh air before I become hysterical; I’m already halfway there. I grab for the door handle and almost fall out of the car when it works too easily. I keep my hand out to steady myself as I walk around to the other side of the vehicle to get Sammy out of his car seat, just to be sure I won’t fall. I’m weak in the knees from all the serotonin floating around in my brain. Whoever said laughter is the best medicine knew what she was talking about.
I’m so happy, it’s like I’m on drugs, and that’s quite an accomplishment, considering where I am; normally, McDonald’s is a guaranteed headache for me, and the pounding in my skull starts before I even get in the door. But right now? I’m floating, my feet barely touching the ground.
When Dev gets out of the car and I see his giant frame standing there, I realize he’s right; he is a smooth operator. It takes a lot of finesse for a guy that big, who stands out that much, to be so humble and kind and cool. In my entire life, I’ve never met a man like him.
McDonald’s is the typical madhouse that it always is seven days a week at this hour of the day. Coming here on a weekday at lunchtime makes me think half of the city must be unemployed and trying to find a place for their kids to run free so they can just relax, take a breath, and have a cup of coffee. The tables are filled with parents, and the outdoor play area is overflowing with wild, screaming children.
We stand behind a long line of fellow patrons. Little kids—siblings, probably—wrestle and fight with each other amongst their parents, jostling the crowd of desperate-looking people staring at the menus above the employees’ heads. Ahhh, McDonald’s . . .
Dev rubs his hands together. “Who wants a Happy Meal?”
Sammy jumps up and down with his hand up. “Me, me, me!”
Dev looks down at me from his great height. “What would you like, Mama? Happy Meal? Fries and a shake? A sedative?”
I smile, charmed. “I think I’ll have a fry and a sedative, please.”
He frowns at me. “I didn’t hear any protein in your answer.”
“Protein schmoteen. A fry will fill me up just fine, thank you very much.”
“Huh-uh. You gotta have some protein. You want chicken, fish, or red meat?”
I’m not in the mood to argue with him, so I shrug. “You pick.”
He gives me a wry look. “Sorry, but I have yet to meet a woman who will allow me to select food for her and then be happy with the choice I make. Just tell me which one you hate the least.”
“I hate beef the least.”
He affects a Cajun accent. “An excellent choice, mademoiselle. I shall order you the smallest burger known to man.”
I glance down and see my son about to blow a gasket, he’s so happy and full of three-year-old, animal-cracker-cookie-fueled energy. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take Sammy out to the playground to help him work off some of the energy he’s got bottled up.”
We both watch Sammy spin circles and then fall to the floor onto his knees. I reach into my purse, pulling out my wallet.
Dev puts his hand on my wrist to stop me. “Lunch is on me.”
His hand is so warm, I want him to keep it there. “I can’t let you do that. You bought the pizzas.”
“I don’t keep score. Besides, I get to write this off. The company will pay for it if I turn in my receipts. If you pay for it, that doesn’t happen.”
“Should I feel bad about your boss paying for my lunch and my son’s lunch?”
“No. He told me to, so we’re good.”
I want to mull that over for a little while, and decide whether I should take advantage of Ozzie’s generosity, but unfortunately this is not the best place to do that. Sammy’s going to make himself nauseous with all the spinning he’s doing. “Okay. Thanks. We’ll be outside. I’m going to find a table out there for all of us. I don’t trust Sammy on his own, even though the air-conditioning would be nice.”
Dev is looking at the menu, but he answers me. “Don’t worry about the heat. I’m used to it.”
I take Sammy by the hand, and together we walk out to the playground. I barely get his shoes off his little feet before he’s running away, screaming like a wild animal suddenly let loose after years in captivity. He leaps onto the nearest net he can climb that will bring him into the tunnel system, which looks like a playground for giant hamsters.