The Daring Storm Chaser - Page 8

At least, that’s what she thinks we’ve been doing. I’ve really been skirting around the severe weather and staying close to the weakest storms, keeping the gray clouds in the windshield, but staying far enough away to be completely safe. I’m just not willing to put her in any danger, no matter how minimal. Colby would never forgive me if I let something happen to her—and I’d never forgive myself.

So, we’ve spent the day reminiscing about childhood memories, singing along to the radio, and just laughing our asses off. I’ve had the best day of my life, and we’ve done nothing but sit in the truck all day.

“I need to check the map,” I tell her, pulling onto the side of the road.

I park the truck and slide my laptop from beneath the seat to compare my GPS map against the weather radar. I predicted the Blue Ridge Mountains would get the most storm activity, and I was right. There’s been a long line of storms crossing over North Carolina, and they’re due for more inclement weather tomorrow.

And I plan to keep avoiding the worst of it for Marjorie’s sake. Kane Charming’s going to be disappointed when I don’t have storm footage, but I can live with that. Colby will probably have something good to share, and Kane works with other storm chasers across the nation. He’ll have plenty of material for his podcast. And the truth is I couldn’t care less about beating Colby.

“It’ll be dark soon,” I tell Marjorie. “I think we should find a place to stay for the night.”

She nods. “Okay.”

I tap the map on the computer screen. “There’s a little town called Mercury Ridge about an hour north of here. I think that’s a good place to stop for the night.”

According to the map, the town is picturesque, not unlike the fictional town in Dante’s Peak—before the molten lava and acidic lake. I bet Marjorie will love it.

As we pull into Mercury Ridge, my stomach growls. I laugh, clutching a hand to my gurgling belly. “Sorry about that.”

Her stomach growls in response, and we both dissolve into a fit of giggles.

“There’s a pizzeria,” she says, pointing to a sign that says Mercury Slice. “Let’s grab a bite there and ask about hotel accommodations for the night.”

The delicious smell of cheese and meat wafts through the air as we approach the building, making my mouth water. I hold the door for Marjorie, and we step inside. A hostess leads us to a cozy booth, and we slide into seats across from each other. Suddenly, my mouth goes dry. This feels a lot like a date.

When the server comes to take our drink order, I order a bourbon on the rocks—for liquid courage. Marjorie orders a margarita. Maybe she’s nervous, too?

The server also tells us that they sell pizza by the slice, so we each order a slice with our favorite toppings and a side salad. We ask about local hotel accommodations and are told about a Bed & Breakfast one block away, near a bakery called Sweet Mercury.

When the pizza arrives, we both laugh with delight at the size of the slices. They overhang the plate by a good five inches or so.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to finish mine,” Marjorie says, her eyes open wide. I watch as she takes a bite. Her eyelids flutter closed, and she moans with pleasure.

My body instantly reacts, and I place a napkin in my lap to hide the evidence. I’d give anything to find out what other sounds she makes when she’s happy.

We enjoy our meal and our drinks, and Marjorie grows more and more animated as she drinks her margarita. When the check comes, I insist on paying the bill. As the server carries my card away, Marjorie looks at me over her glass.

“Don’t think you’re getting laid just because you paid for dinner,” she says.

“That’s not why I paid the bill,” I say, feeling heat creep into my face. Does she really think so little of me? I’d never expect a woman to put out just because I paid for her meal!

“Good, because that’s not why you’re getting laid tonight.”

Wait. What? Did I hear that right? I lick my lips nervously. “I’m getting laid tonight?”

She bobs her head. “Yep. If you want.”

Holy hell. “Of course, I want…”

I glance at her margarita glass. How drunk is she? Would I be taking advantage of her? She only had one drink, so she shouldn’t be drunk beyond the capacity to consent.

“I want, too,” she says, her gaze lowering to my lips.

The server returns with my card, and I quickly add a generous tip, scribble my name at the bottom of the receipt, and pop up from the booth.

“Let’s get out of here.” I hold out a hand to Marjorie to help her out of the booth. It takes every ounce of willpower I possess not to throw her over my shoulder and run straight to the bed and breakfast as fast as I can.

Chapter 6