Time to check my pulse.
I think somewhere on the way to the table I died and went to heaven. There’s a permanent grin digging at my cheeks as I soak in a rustic warmth I’d never find in San Diego.
The old-fashioned diner is adorable and authentic.
Besides the town photos, it’s decked out with images of Elvis, Betty Boop, James Dean, Sylvester the cat, and more classic rockers than I could try to name.
There’s even an old jukebox in the corner, currently piping out “Hawaii” by the Beach Boys.
Shiny models of famous cars, all from the fifties, decorate the shelves near the ceiling, glinting in the light so often they draw the eye.
But as delightful as this little diner is, it’s got nothing on the two sweet girls across the table from me.
When Grady first suggested “coming clean” about Bruce, my heart crawled up my throat and stuck there. But ever since the big reveal, seeing the sugar rush wonder in their eyes as they drank in a shock from another world, I’ll admit I was wrong.
Grady knows what’s best for his kids, and showing them Bruce was a very special thing.
We’re all part of this secret pact and enjoying every bit of it.
I’m convinced they took their promises seriously.
They won’t tell a single soul about the tiger—at least not until we’re good and gone—and then they’ll have to work hard to convince their friends and maybe even their adored Uncle Hank that they had a real live tiger in the barn.
It’s almost too much for anyone to believe, especially coming from two preteen chatterboxes.
I’ll bet Hank will be the first to find out when Bruce is safe and sound and I’m...hopefully not serving a felony sentence.
They’ve told me about his menagerie, but he’s never had a tiger. Legions of cats, dogs, rabbits, horses, goats, cows, chickens, ducks, and geese can’t hold a candle to an exotic beast who tells everyone who sees him that they’re not in Kansas anymore—or western North Dakota.
Not if I have anything to say about it.
They’re both sorely disappointed that their dad won’t let them have a pet—not even a goldfish per Avery. I have to wonder why as I stare at him, trying to decipher whatever strange logic is behind that chiseled jaw covered in thick dark scruff that makes me wonder how it’d feel on my skin.
Wonder far too freaking much.
Grady McKnight might have a gold lump in his chest for a heart, and I still don’t understand him.
The no pets ever thing just doesn’t add up.
He has the land and the barn to house plenty of animals. I know time could be an issue, what with his bar business and all, but the girls are responsible and old enough. I’m certain they’d pitch in taking care of a cat or dog or even a few chickens.
They’ve begged to help out with Bruce and given me a litany of all the chores they’ve done at their uncle’s place, cleaning out stables and brushing sheep. They tell me they’ve helped feed Tory Faulkner’s goats a few times too, and made friends with a mischievous black goat named Hellboy.
Of course, there’s not much I can let them do with a super-cat who can’t get within ten feet of them. But if they can help with offloading future meat deliveries or something, I’ll gladly let them.
The hamburgers and fries arrive in no time, along with tall frosty milkshakes served in classic glass cups and stainless-steel mixers.
“Brace yourself, woman,” Grady warns, giving me a heavy look. “You’ve gotta savor your first experience with a Mack burger. Four kinds of cheese, deep fried pickles, sauteed onions—
“And peppers that could curl your tail!” The girls belt out together with smiles so big it makes me laugh.
Avery picks up her burger so fast a gooey rope of cheese slides right off it. “Did we get it right, Daddy? What Mr. Larkin always says?”
Grady gives them a nod before turning back to me. “Yep. He’s damn near given the Mack burger its latest marketing pitch.”
Grady takes a massive encouraging bite of his burger, smacking his lips with a smile.
“Don’t be scared to get messy,” he tells me. “That’s the way we roll in this town.”
I hoist up my own hefty burger, my brows lifting at the weight in my hand.
“When in Rome...” My final words before I open my mouth wide for a great big bite of what might be the best hamburger on Earth.
Holy crap.
My mouth zings with greasy flavor, fat, salt, and just the right kick. My knees buckle and my legs shift out under the seat, accidentally bumping Grady’s leg.
“Whoa. Whoa. That’s like...” I barely remember to keep my mouth closed to chew.
“Yeah,” Grady echoes. “Baby, I know.”
I’m not even sure if it’s the orgasm between two buns anymore or the fire in his eyes and riptide smile.
I just know I’m melting into the booth with shameful delight and he’s enjoying every flipping second, those honey-dark eyes dancing over me.
Heat darts up my spine when I imagine what he’s thinking, raking those eyes across my skin, a hunger on his face that’s deeper than hella good diner fare.
Thank Heaven for the girls.
They keep our eyes apart, safely abstinent, and the chatty, laughing twins are just as charming as their father. Right now, they’re engaged in a very civil debate about the merits of chocolate verses strawberry shakes.
“Girls, you want this settled tonight, I think we’d better take a vote,” Grady says, smiling down at them both as he chews his dinner. “You know me, I’m votin’ strawberry. Nothing like having fresh fruit to go with a mess of ice cream and sugar. I like when my sweets come out of the ground.”
I can’t help snickering, which attracts their attention.
“You want to weigh in on this, Willow Wisp?” he asks, his eyes positively charged as his lips find his straw. “Chocolate or strawberry?”
My jaw is in my lap.
I don’t even know where to begin with that Willow Wisp thing, much less his totally big snarly dad logic with food.
Oh my God.
He’s such a dude.
Such a dad.
“As a matter of fact,” I start, folding my arms and turning my face up. “There’s a strong case for chocolate if you’re basing your argument on what’s natural. Ever seen a cacao tree before?”
Big daddy snorts and shakes his head. The girls stare at me in awe.
“It’s true! I saw plenty in Africa, and they’re always magnificent. They don’t call it Theobroma cacao for nothing, you know,” I say, holding a hand to my mouth so I can whisper to the kids. “That’s science-speak for food of the gods, ladies. Keep it between us. No big strawberry-loving lunks allowed.”
“I heard that,” Grady says with a barely concealed chuckle. “Enough with closing arguments. Let’s vote. Everybody convinced by Miss Fancy Schmancy Scientist and her cacao, raise your hands.”
Mine goes up first.
Then two more little hands join me.
Boom.
It’s three-to-one with a very adorable grump accepting his loss like a gentleman.
“You ladies have it,” he says. “Chocolate it is. I’ll be damned if I’m not gonna suck down every last drop of this thick strawberry ambrosia, though.”