“Shrimp,” I shrug, “my mom has an aversion to seafood, especially shellfish, so we never really have it, even when we travel. Trust me, if I had eaten this, I’d remember it.”
“Oh, I believe you,” he pokes through another chuckle.
Ignoring him, I pull apart the cracked claw to draw out a chunk of meat before popping it into my mouth.
“Easton,” I whisper breathlessly, grabbing my fork and shoving the outer tong into the softer side of the leg before ripping into it the way he taught me. He leans forward, bracing his forearms on the table as I toss my prized meat into one of four drawn butters. “I’m dead serious when I say this…you may have to cut me off.”
“I don’t think I’ll be able to. This is too entertaining. In fact, I can guarantee I’ll be enabling you. Psst,” he whispers, giving me the come-hither finger and drawing me closer to him. Eyes locked, he gives me a sexy flash of teeth as he retrieves a piece of crab from my cheek and discards it amongst the mountain of shells I’ve accumulated.
Temporarily distracted by him, I try unsuccessfully to push out all wayward thoughts—including his full lips—before returning to my mission.
“God, I really needed this.” I lift my beer with the clean sides of my palms and take a sip, nearly dropping the heavy glass mug onto the table. Exhaling happily, I lift my finger when the background music cuts off and the first few notes of a new song chime in.
Ready for the challenge, Easton kicks back, sipping his beer, listening attentively before he confidently speaks up. “‘Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic’ by The Police.”。
Grabbing my phone, I pull down my screen and tap my Shazam app as the title comes up, along with the band name.
“Unreal,” I say. “You haven’t been wrong once today.”
“Maybe, but true connoisseurs know the B-side.”
“B-side?”
“The flip side of the vinyl record, on a forty-five, the B-side is on the opposite side of the hit song, which is typically on A.”
“Oh, so are you a true connoisseur? Do you know the B-side songs too?”
“A lot of them. Some of them I like a lot more than the A-side.”
“How many of the songs on your infinite playlist can you actually play?” When he goes silent, I lift my gaze to where he runs his finger along the rim of his frosted glass.
“Easton?”
“Most of them,” he admits softly.
“Jesus…that’s incredible!”
“Maybe it’s remarkable to you, but I’ve been doing it my whole life, so it’s kind of an unconscious thing.”
“It’s a gift,” I say pointedly. “Own it.”
“Fine,” he negotiates, putting both his forearms on the table, “but I bet you could just as easily name the date on a lot of key headlines.”
“Well, they coincide with US history, which I love, so maybe a few.”
“But you took the time to study it, probably just as avidly as I have music.”
“Okay, let’s put it to the test.” I wiggle butter-covered ‘hit me’ fingers.
He presses in. “Reagan assassination attempt?”
I surprise myself when the answer comes easily. “March 30 nineteen eighty-one.”
“End of the Cold War?”
“Third of December…” I squint, “’89.” My smile widens. “Hit me again.”
His half grin briefly dazzles me. “Roosevelt’s death?”
“Twelfth of April, 1945, eighteen days before Hitler, which I hated for Roosevelt, he deserved to know the fate of his nemesis.”
“See,” Easton reclines, seeming satisfied as I blow a wayward lock of curly hair out of my face. Hair Easton set loose a mile marker into our drive before tossing the tie out the window. Sensing my distress to keep from feasting on my hair, he leans in and tucks the cascading lock behind my ear.
Thanking him, I push my plate away and rip open another lemon-scented packet to clean my hands.
“You sure you’re good?” He glances down at my sparsely covered plate, “Or should I order another beer and reload the trough?”
“I can’t fit anything else into this mouth,” I declare in surrender, and when my word choice strikes me I roll my eyes, my couth unreachable. Ripping my bib off, I take a sip of beer.
“Feel Like Makin’ Love,” Easton delivers, and I reject a little of my beer on a cough.
“Pardon?”