Blake laughs with me, blissfully unaware that anything might be amiss.

It’s refreshing, something I haven’t felt in a long time.

“Does that kind of line usually work for you?” I intend for it to be a small dig, but he shrugs it off, showing no sign of offense.

If anything, his lips twitch as though he’s enjoying the battle of words. “Shockingly, yes. Trivia humor might be my smoothest move.”

“If that’s true, you must be rough as sandpaper.”

He scrubs at his cheeks, not making even a slight scratching sound on the smooth skin, as rebuttal. “Wanna check for yourself?”

I’m tempted, but before I can do anything, Bubba sets down burger baskets on the literal edge of the table as if he doesn’t want to get any closer to me or Blake and then scurries away quickly.

Blake’s eyebrow rises dangerously as he cuts his eyes to follow Bubba’s hasty exit. But he pushes one of the baskets my way. The aroma of fresh meat wafts up, and my stomach grumpily reminds me that I didn’t eat lunch today, so I ignore whatever eye battle Blake and Bubba have going on this time in favor of digging into my dinner.

“Good?” Blake asks a moment later. I look up as I swallow my fourth bite to find him simply watching me.

I grunt a positive response and take a way-too-big bite that probably makes me look like a carnivorous monster.

Am I trying to scare him off? Maybe a little.

Instead, he picks up his burger and takes an even bigger bite, grinning around the mouthful and then saying, “Good.”

A piece of shredded lettuce falls out and he shoves it back in his mouth with a thumb, swiping at a dab of mustard too. It's actually adorable somehow, making him seem less perfect than his carefully styled blond hair and business casual outfit originally suggested.

We eat in companionable silence for a few minutes, and I get the bulk of my burger down. Thank goodness, because we’re interrupted by a guy who I’m glad didn’t drive Silas home. In other words, a bit drunk and wobbly on his feet. “Hey, Morticia, wanna dance?”

He’s chuckling like the idea is ridiculous even though he’s the one asking, and I nearly choke. I have a momentary fear that I’m going to need the Heimlich maneuver, but luckily, patting myself hard on the chest does the trick. My throat is still raw and rough-feeling when I ask, “Aren’t you afraid I’ll make your hands rot where we touch?”

I wiggle my fingers toward his and he jerks them up to his chest protectively. “Or maybe I’ll accidentally brush against a certain part when we sway and then it’ll fall off?”