“I’m not,” I whisper, glancing around at all the well-dressed, middle-aged couples enjoying five-course meals. “It was just the cheapest thing on the menu.”
He snorts. The woman next to us gives him a dirty look. He shrugs. “This is so weird. You’re worried about spending my money. Last year, when I took the entire trumpet section out for Trumpet Taco Tuesday, you ordered twenty dollars’ worth of tacos just to screw with me.”
The lady gives him a dirty look again. He shrugs again. “What? At least I didn’t say fuck with me.”
“James!” I squeal as primly as possible. My God, I opened my mouth, and my mother just came out. “And I didn’t do it to,” I glance at the woman glaring at us, “mess with you. I hadn’t eaten in two days because I was so busy studying to get a better grade than you on our Ethics exam. I was hungry.”
He sighs and glances at my empty plate. “And you’re still hungry now. I am just killing it in the romance department.” He gives up the ruse of erudite manners and rests his elbow on the starched white tablecloth, propping his head on his fist. “This isn’t us, is it?”
I shake my head. “I’m not sure what us is yet, but I’m pretty sure this isn’t it, no.”
“I had another idea I thought you’d absolutely love, but I also thought it was the least romantic date possible.”
“So, you think I’m the least romantic person possible?” I ask, deadpan.
He doesn’t even try to fight back. He drops his head to the table with a loud thump that rattles the fine china and silverware, all while the lady beside us glares at his laughter. “I just can’t win tonight.” He raises his head with a grin. “Fine. Let’s get out of here and go do something fun.”
“Finally.” She sniffs.
“Do you want a doggy bag for my leftovers?” he offers.
She’s appalled, but her companion just laughs into his napkin.
Jim throws a bunch of bills on the table then pulls out my chair and offers me his elbow like a perfect gentleman. He walks out of the restaurant with his head held high.
“I wonder if she knew she was being so rude to the James Fossoway,” I tease. Somehow, I doubt she’s a football fan, but the man with her might have been.
“I wonder if she knew she was being so rude to the Sophia Reston.” He raises an eyebrow. “The first female head drum major in Marching Miners’ one-hundred-eighteen-year history.”
Honestly, I’m not sure it’s that big a deal. I’m not the first female collegiate head drum major in the country. And I still can’t shake the feeling that I don’t even deserve to be the first at State.
Jim holds the door open for me to exit into the humid twilight. “So, what do you want to eat since you’re still hungry?”
I take his arm again as we cross the parking lot because … I want to. Being close to him is quickly growing on me. “We don’t have to stop for anything. You actually ate a full meal.”
“Nope. No way. I know you’re still hungry.” He opens the door to his truck for me. “If romance for us looks like me keeping you fed, then I’m on the job.”
I laugh as he runs around the hood to climb into the driver’s seat. Honestly, the hard work he’s putting in to show me we could be something together is the most romantic part of all this. How many guys wouldn’t just give up after waiting so long and the clock winding down?
“So?” He grins as he starts the engine. “Do you quiero Taco Bell?”
“I do.”
So, that’s what we do. We go through the Taco Bell drive-through, dressed in our fanciest clothes. By the time I’ve inhaled four hard tacos, I have a nice Fire Sauce stain on my cream-colored dress. So worth it. I lick my fingers as Jim shakes his head while he drives us to the next destination.
“I don’t understand where you even put it all. You’re so … tiny.”
“I’m short but fluffy,” I correct him.
A wolfish grin spreads across his magnificent lips. “I like your fluffy parts. They’re my favorites.”
I believe him. He’s done a great job of proving that to me over the past few days. I actually have a hickey on the underside of my boob.
We pull up into a gravel parking lot with a rusty tin sign over a wire fence gate that reads Wreck Sh*t in hand-painted red letters.
I burst out laughing. “What is Wreck Shit?”
He shrugs. “Exactly what it says. You smash stuff to vent out all your rage.”
“And you thought I’d love this?”
He winks as he opens his truck door. “I know you will. Just imagine smashing glass to your heart’s content to get rid of the last of the bad feelings you still have toward me. It’s perfect.”
“Oh.” I nod as I climb down from the truck. We meet in front of the hood. “So, this is entirely selfish. You want me to let go of all the crap in the past, so we can move forward with a clean slate?”
“Yep.” He doesn’t bother denying it, and his expression is bright with hope. He loosens his tie and rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt. The jacket was left in the truck. “You ready to do this?”
I shake my head to try to distract myself from the sight of his forearms flexing as he folds the crisp white fabric of his shirt neatly on both arms. He looks like he just got home from a long day at work, and I can’t believe he’s come home to me.
“No? I don’t think they’ll let you hit me with the baseball bat because of insurance, but I’m sure you can get in a few swings when no one is watching.”
“You are absolutely devastating, James Fossoway.”
And he is. So utterly sexy without even trying.
He grins then leans down to brush his lips against mine. “You love me when I’m devastating.”
I’m about to reply that I do indeed love him, but he grabs my hand and pulls me through the entrance.
I thought this place was run-down and abandoned-looking, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. Inside is overflowing with people eager to break shit. I guess it makes sense. Rage is as common a part of the human condition as love and romance. And they’re offering a safe, fun way to channel that anger. It’s actually a brilliant business model. The signs above the cash register have lists of options. Renting a rage room is a dollar per minute, and you can choose exactly what you want to smash. There are even à la carte destruction tool choices like baseball bats, crowbars, and golf clubs.
“Well?” Jim rubs his hands together as we wait in line. “Pick your poison. What’ll it be?”
I’m a little concerned that the guy who supposedly fueled my hate as a way to keep my attention seems like he has more rage than I do to vent. “Do you have anything you want to share?”
“No.” He squints in confusion. “Why?”
“Why are you so excited about this? I thought we were here for me to get rid of all my bad vibes.”
His expression shifts into guilt that he can’t mask. “I have things I’m mad about. Not everything is about you.”
Fair enough. “I’m thinking a golf club and a box of dishes.”
“Really? I thought for sure you’d go for a baseball bat and a TV.”