Sidelines (Wounded Hearts #1) by S. M. Smith Page B

might be article worthy.” I say instead.
    His hard exhale tells me that wasn’t what he wanted to hear, so I decide to give him some slack. “Hmm. I think I can say the same about my favorite food.”
    He’s so quiet for a second that I don’t think he’s going to take the bait. “What is your favorite food?”
    I smile. “Bacon.” He laughs again, and so do I. “Well actually, that’s my second favorite. You’re going to think my first is dumb though.”
    He glances over and props an arm on the console, clearly intrigued. “You can’t just say that and not explain.”
    This is where I have to hold my tongue from saying something stupid like, “Why? You do the exact same thing.” But instead I busy my hands with petting Hank and suck it up.
    “Nachos.”
    He smiles curiously and pulls a pair of aviator shaded from from a cubby under the dash. “That doesn’t seem dumb. This place makes the best nachos—”
    “Oh, I’m sure their nachos are great, but they won’t be the kind I love.”
    His brows furrow as he glances at me again.
    “I’m talking stadium nachos. With extra salty chips and creamy cheese sauce.” The thought of all the different nachos I’ve tried over the years makes me moan embarrassingly.
    “You mean the stuff with the fake cheese?” I’d be offended by Logan’s disgusted tone if I didn’t know about his knack for all foods healthy.
    “Yep. That’s the stuff. Healthy or not, it’s my comfort food.”
    Logan purses his lips together, obviously unsure of what to say to my confession. “So nachos with fake cheese sauce…”
    “Oh, yeah. Some stadiums ruin it but most do a pretty good job. Baton Rouge has these shrimp nachos, oh my word! Talk about heaven. But the lobster nachos in Portland, ugh!”
    “So you don’t like seafood?” Logan turns onto the main strip of the town and slows. He waves to an older couple strolling hand in hand down the sidewalk.
    “Oh, I love seafood, just not lobster with fake cheese sauce.”
    He chortles at my comment, but I’m being dead serious. It was totally gross.
    “So which stadium has the best nachos?”
    I have to think about it for a few minutes. “It’s a tie. Baton Rouge, this tiny college in Missouri, and San Antonio.”
    He slows to a stop at the only working stoplight on Main Street and looks surprisingly at me. “We do?”
    “Oh yeah! The chili is total artery clogging-worthy and the pickled jalapenos…Mmm.”
    He presses the gas pedal when the light turns green and shakes his head. He’s quiet while I try to keep my stomach under control. I don’t have to wait long though because just as soon as I think we’ve hit the outskirts of town and are going to have to wait another thirty minutes to reach society again, a tiny building surrounded by a small mass of vehicles comes into view. Logan slows the truck and pulls into the dirt drive, dust kicking up behind us, and Hank gets antsy in my lap. He shifts and props himself on the console, expectantly watching Logan’s every move.
    “I’ll be right back.” He puts the truck in park and I try not to pout as he hops out and makes his way toward the front door of the quaint little restaurant.
    “Maybe dogs and sports reporters are not allowed?” I mumble when Hank sinks his head to rest on his paws. He snorts and his whole body shakes while I continue to run my fingers over his short coat.
    A few moments later, Logan steps back out of the building carrying two large, stuffed, white plastic sacks with a laugh on his face. The two older gentlemen he walks out with wear matching smiles until they see me waiting in Logan’s truck, snuggling with his dog.
    “Got a real pretty date there, Logan.” One man wearing faded denim overalls over a short sleeved, red and blue plaid pearl snap shirt gives Logan an exaggerated wink. Logan glances my way, the blush on his cheeks clearly noticeable before shaking his head.
    “It’s not what it looks like, boys. Miss Mooreland and I