I glance back at Jasper and watch him fold his tall, powerful frame into a chair that’s too small for him.
He reaches up to take one of the burgundy, leather-bound menus the waitress is now holding out to us. Her eyes widen when the tips of his fingers brush against her hand. Even hidden beneath the brim of his hat, he’s recognizable—especially only four hours away from Calgary.
“Oh my god. Hi,” she breathes out, looking like a kid on Christmas. “You’re Jasper Gervais.” One of her hands falls across her chest, and I have to resist the urge to roll my eyes.
Jasper gives her a kind smile and a gracious little dip of his head. “Hi,” is all he says back, turning his small smile down to the menu. In typical Jasper fashion, he’s friendly, but not that friendly.
Friendly enough that no one can say he’s rude, but not friendly enough to invite more conversation.
Not that it’s ever stopped me.
“I, uh . . .” The girl’s brown eyes flash between us, trying to read the situation before she points a finger like she’s come up with a great idea. “I’ll give you a minute with the menus!” She’s chipper, and I can’t help but notice the way her cheeks pink when her eyes land on Jasper again.
She’s starstruck and it’s honestly cute.
Jasper doesn’t notice though, or at the very least, doesn’t comment. He hunches over his menu and stares at his options. It strikes me that he isn’t an easy man to get to know, that he must seem closed off to most people he meets. Two dimensional even. But I know better. I know his humor. I know how fiercely he loves his family, and I know he has social anxiety that makes him seem standoffish to most.
He keeps so much locked up inside that he never talks about.
“What are you going to have?”
My eyes snap up and back down at the menu filled with standard pub fare. “A salad.”
Jasper’s head tips up and he stares at me, expression carefully blank before his eyes roam over me, catching on my shoulder that peeks out of the neckline of the thick knit navy-blue sweater I recently purchased.
I wonder if he’s about to say something about my meal choice. I know I’m thin. Too thin. But after years of fighting my way to the top of our ballet company and then being told I need to look a certain way for our wedding, it’s hard to change my mindset. Besides, with everything that’s happened since the wedding, my appetite has been almost nonexistent.
He shrugs and drops his gaze back down. “Okay.”
I keep reading the plastic pages before me. “Oooh. They have Buddyz Best on tap!”
Amusement sparks on his handsome face. “You can get something better, you know.”
I laugh. “Of course, I know. But I’ve developed a taste for it.”
Jasper flips his menu shut and leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. His biceps bulge against the soft, gray waffle-knit Henley he’s wearing.
I try not to stare.
“You sure you aren’t just ordering it to be contrary?”
I lean back and mirror his position. His midnight eyes drop for a split second to my shoulder again before resting back on my face. “Nope. I love it. I bet it tastes different on tap. Better even.”
His grin widens. “Yes. I’m certain the quality is really affected.”
I nod. “I wonder if it’s available in bottles.”
He snorts.
“I’ll have to try all three to really pass judgment.”
He leans across the table with a spark in his eye and a small smirk on his shapely lips. His fresh scent—spearmint and something earthy, like one of those dried eucalyptus sprigs—drifts my way as his long fingers tap on the table twice. “New goal for this road trip: try Buddyz Best absolutely everywhere we can. Become true connoisseurs.”
I laugh, wagging my head as I lean forward. Gravity pulls me toward him and our eyes lock. They lock so hard that I can’t pull mine away. His dark blues are like a vacuum. They suck me straight in, and for a split second, everything around us gets lost in the rush of blood in my ears.
“Alright! You two ready?” The server pops up next to us.
We both start and sit up straight.
With a quick coughing noise, Jasper recovers. “Yeah. Sloane, go ahead.”
I tuck my hair behind my ears and smile at the girl whose cheeks have gone pink again. “I’ll have a green salad with vinaigrette, please.” I hand back the menu, face flipping in Jasper’s direction when he says he’ll have the same.
He doesn’t pay me any mind though. “But I’ll also have an order of the battered cod bites and popcorn chicken.”
She nods, smiling so broadly my cheeks almost hurt for her.
“I’ll also have a pint of Buddyz Best,” I say.
Jasper holds his menu out. “Let’s make that a pitcher.”
She reads our order back to us and scampers away. I can feel the other staff looking over at us, but I don’t pay them any mind. Because the way Jasper is staring at me right now has my stomach twisting and thighs clenching.
I return to gazing out the window at the black lake and try to gather my thoughts.
Because I’ve been staring at Jasper Gervais since I was ten years old, and suddenly . . . he’s staring back.
“I think the popcorn chicken pairs better.” I lean back in my seat and pat my stomach. Once we had our salads, Jasper made the excellent point that beer doesn’t pair all that well with lettuce. He explained how we wouldn’t be giving the flavor profile a fair shake if we didn’t taste it with something appropriately greasy and salty.
Which is how I found myself scarfing back deep-fried meats and considering their merits while enjoying a second pitcher of cheap beer that doesn’t taste that great no matter what I pair with it.
What it tastes like, though, is rebellion. And for right now, that’s good enough for me.
Jasper nods, assessing the plates before us. “I think you’re right. But I love fish and chips with vinegar.”
Yeah, we ordered fries too. According to Jasper, just saying “fish” and not “fish and chips” is weird. Through all the gluttony, he hasn’t said a word about my weight or mentioned how much or how little I eat. He’s just put food in front of me and involved me in the fun of trying it all out with him.
Even with everything so fucked-up, I can’t remember the last time I felt this relaxed.
Tonight I’m basking in being myself, and it feels good not worrying about calories or how everyone around me is perceiving my every move.
“Fair. That was amazing too. Plus, those fries are totally homemade.”
He tosses another one in his mouth, chewing and nodding appreciatively. “I think you’re right. Wanna play a game of pool before we go back and pass out?”
He juts his chin just past me, eyes catching on my shoulder. Again. As I turn to look at the pool table, I sneak a peek down at it to see if I spilled something there or have sprouted a long hair out of a mole or something.
Seeing that my skin is clear, I hum contemplatively as I catch sight of the pool table. It isn’t overly busy but it’s not empty either. There are people milling around, so that means witnesses to how bad I am at pool.
And I hate being bad at things. Hate failing. Hate losing. I’m competitive to my core.