Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 96189 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96189 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
“Sorry, Tank,” the man says and drops the menus down on the table for us. He glances to me then shakes his head before heading back to his station, leaving me confused.
“Don’t mind him. They’re used to me eating alone.” He supplies the answer to my unspoken question. I look back to Tank, who has moved a chair out for me.
“Thanks.” I slip into it. He takes the other. It’s not across from me but to my left, his back to the wall.
I study him. That relaxed feeling I had a moment ago fades. I’m not sure what to say next. Everything that comes to mind is super lame, or maybe it only sounds lame in my head. Luckily the waiter saves me by coming back to give us some water and take our order.
When he walks away, vague panic starts to rise again.
“Theodore Tanksley.”
“Huh?” I reach for my water.
“My name,” he sighs, leaning back in his chair. I’m almost positive the chair lets out a groan. I don’t know if I should laugh about his name or the chair, so I just laugh. That name is ridiculous, boarding on excessive. It’s oddly fitting.
“I would have gone with Bear.” I shrug.
“Anything other than Theodore Tanksley works for me.”
“Is this one of those things you never tell people? Like other people are with their middle names?” I try to tease him.
“No one calls me that. They know better.”
“Fine, I won’t call you Theodore Tanksley.” I sing-song his name. It rolls off the tongue way easier than you’d think.
“I changed my mind. You can call me that,” he tosses back at me. His face is serious. It almost reminds me of the look Liv’s men get when they fold and give her something she’s asked for. Everyone knows they’d give that girl anything if they thought it would make her happy.
My heart flutters, and I swiftly bring my hand to my chest, surprised by the feelings. Tank’s eyes follow my hand. The waiter drops our food down before he can say something, and I immediately start shoveling food into my mouth. At least I can control that at the moment.
We fall into small talk as we both clear our plates. “I’m impressed,” he tells me as he eyes my now empty one.
“Don’t be. I didn't order an appetizer.” I’m only half joking. I earn another one of those laughs that give me all the weird, new feelings.
Tank pulls out his wallet and grabs a credit card from it. “Check,” he tells Steve, whose name I’ve now learned during our meal.
“Wait.” I almost pop up from my seat as Steve takes off with Tank’s credit card.
“I got it,” he tries to reassure me.
“But we didn't order dessert yet.” I can’t help the horror that enters my voice. This time Tank throws his head back and laughs.
That was way better than any dessert I’ve ever had.
CHAPTER 3
TANK
“You really didn’t have to buy the whole pie,” Erika says quietly as we walk toward her dorm.
The white takeout bag swings by my side. “It’s late and they would’ve thrown it out.”
“Okay.”
Her simple acceptance makes me smile. Again. I lift the heel of my hand and press it under my cheekbone. My face feels sore. I’m not used to smiling—or laughing, for that matter. Not much in my life to be giggly about.
“Did you hurt yourself?”
My hand drops away and I peer down at Erika, who doesn’t come up much higher than my pecs. Am I hurt? Not right now, but I suspect that she could turn me into dust with a wave of her delicate pinky finger. “Nah.” I can’t really explain that my cheeks hurt because she made me happy. Even with my limited experience with women, I can figure that out. We just met. Although…we ate something. Does that qualify as a date? If dinner was a date, should I be holding her hand? Fuck. I scrub my hand through my buzz cut. I should’ve paid more attention in high school to whatever the fuck my classmates did with the opposite sex instead of looking for fight clubs.
I sneak a glance toward Erika again. Her beautiful face is serene, as if she’s at peace with the world, which is great. Love that for her, but what the fuck does it mean as it relates to the dinner? Is she happy? If we were on a date, wouldn’t she be nervous like me? My stomach’s in so much turmoil I might barf up my food and I never do that. Barf, I mean.
She’s not frowning, though, and I bought her pie. Maybe the pie thing would make up for not knowing if we’re on a date. Oh, hell, I hate this. I’m just going to ask her.
“So is this a date?”
“A what?” She abruptly stops and stares at me.