The Dating Proposal(18)
His expression turns stern. “No innuendo about Vi.”
I smirk. “Of course. There was nothing more to the baked goods gift. Nothing at all. Nothing whatsoever.”
He furrows his brow. “I’ve known her since I was six. She’s my best friend’s sister. And she’s awesome. As in, the coolest woman ever.”
“Could you make it any more obvious you’re into her?”
He stares at me like I’ve grown antlers. “You’re crazy.”
I head around to the driver’s side and stare at him over the roof of the car. “Like I said, you’re into her, and one of these days, it’s going to hit you like a ton of bricks. Or like the Dallas D-line sacking you.”
He shakes a finger at me as he gets into the passenger seat. “Take that back. Take that blasphemy back.”
I hold up my hands in surrender. “Fine. I take it back. You do know I never want to see you sacked.”
He exhales. “Nor do I.”
Under my breath I mutter, “It hurts my fantasy football rankings. That’s why.”
He rolls his eyes as I turn on the engine. “And . . . you’re a dick,” he says, as I pull away from the beach. “What are you meeting with her about? The woman you supposedly don't want to nail?”
“I have this idea about having her do a little segment on my show.”
“I bet that’ll work out real well for you.”
“Why won’t it?”
“You’re into her, man. And you’re all about the no-entanglement-at-work rule.”
“Then it’s a good thing I won’t get entangled with her.”
That rule exists for a damn good reason, no matter how much I want to nail her. Because there’s nothing supposedly about that.
13
Chris
McKenna shakes her head as she surveys the menu. “I’m in serious trouble with myself.”
I lift a brow in question. “Why’s that?’
She gestures around us to the hidden paradise of Fritz’s Gourmet Fries, tucked away on a side street a few blocks from Fillmore. “How did I not know about this place? I should be shunned. Seriously. Shunned and locked up.” She holds out her hands as if I’m going to cuff her wrists. The prospect is downright appealing, and I’m not into that sort of thing. I’m more of a whatever-the-woman-wants-the-woman-should-get guy.
I reroute my thoughts to the topic at hand. “It’s pretty bad not to know about this slice of heaven. But then again, I’d like to think I’ve now introduced you to nirvana.”
She slaps the menu on the table with panache. “This is the Garden of Eden. I want it all.”
“As I say, you can never go wrong with fries.”
“Fries are literally never a mistake.”
“Nor are forty-seven varieties of dipping sauces.” Fritz’s Gourmet Fries is no doubt the best-kept secret. I stumbled across it a few years ago and have been addicted ever since.
McKenna scans the list of sauces I’ve already memorized—pesto mayo, spicy yogurt peanut, creamy wasabi tapenade, spicy lime, roasted red pepper, and so on.
“They all sound delicious.” She sounds as if she’s in a trance. Her blue eyes are hazy with fry-sauce lust. “Which is your favorite?”
“If I told you my favorite French fry dip was ketchup, would you think less of me?”
She stares at me as if she’s studying my face. “One, I wouldn't believe you.”
“Is that so, Doubting Thomas?”
“It’s impossible to like ketchup best when you have all these choices, especially when you can have creamy wasabi tapenade. Say you’re sorry. Say you’re sorry right now for that slight to the world of clever sauces.”
Laughing, I lean back in my chair. “Fine. Sorry, sauce,” I say, like a kid who’s not sorry, but is forced to apologize. “But wait till you try the ketchup.”
“It’s just ketchup.”
I shake my head. “Nope. It’s not just ketchup.”
“What is it, then? Magical elixir ketchup?”
“Sort of.” I lean in closer and drop my voice to a dirty whisper. “It’s sinfully good.”
She nibbles on the corner of her lips. “Like, orgasmically good?”
Holy hell. She went there, and I like it. The way she says that word, like it’s intriguing and fascinating, is a jolt of lust delivered straight to my groin. Then again, it’d be pretty hard for her to say “orgasmic” and for me not to be aroused, so c’est la vie. “Yes, it’s orgasmic ketchup.”
She turns, raises a hand as if talking to the imaginary waiter, then adopts a French accent. “Gar?on, I’ll have a dozen ketchups, s’il vous pla?t. With ten to go.” She turns back to me, drops the accent, and with a straight face, explains, “One can never have too much orgasmic ketchup.”
I stroke my chin. “Hmm. I believe I saw that on a bumper sticker the other day.”
“Words to live by.” She peruses the menu once more then sets it down and gestures to my shirt. “Now, don’t get me wrong—your surfing outfit was great, but I like the casual yet classy look of your attire.”