Chapter 34
Special Order, Hidden Agenda?
Tessa
I wanted to groan in frustration. A special order? Seriously?
As Ryder smiled from the other side of the counter, I put on my poker face and tried like heck to hold it.
It wasn't that I minded the work. Today, business had gone surprisingly smooth – but only because the number of customers had dwindled early, probably due to my second-rate service.
What I did mind was pretending to stay calm while Ryder Vaughn played Mister Detective – or whatever he was up to.
"Terrific," I chirped, trying to sound like I meant it. "So…special how? I mean, we don't do a lot on-site, so I'd hate to get your hopes up."
His eyebrows lifted. "So no Porterhouse?"
I hated that I wanted to laugh. "Sorry, we're all out."
He shrugged. "Then it's a good thing I didn't order one."
Now, I had no idea what to say. Was he stalling for time? Or just messing around?
Either way, he was definitely up to something.
Yes, I'd suspected this from his very first visit. But then, afterward, like a total idiot, I'd let down my guard, especially yesterday – talking about fudge and movies, and my dead Aunt Tillie who didn't even exist.
He'd made me smile – and not only because he was funny. It was because, just for a moment there, the troubles from Chicago had faded away, leaving me feeling a lot like my old self.
Plus, let's be honest here. Just looking at the guy would make any girl smile.
But I wasn't just any girl. I was trying to lay low, and I'd been way too careless.
Last night had been a huge wakeup call – learning that Maisie's mystery man was connected to Chicago. And to Ryder Vaughn.
Making everything worse was the fact that with Maisie, I'd felt compelled to play it down. I didn't freak out. I didn't bolt. And I especially didn't tell her half of what I knew.
And why? Because panic was contagious, and Maisie was stressed enough. So I'd dug deep and played the whole thing off like a harmless joke. No mention of Chicago. No naming of Ryder Vaughn. No admitting that he was anything more than a good tipper who'd gotten under my skin.
I'd made the whole thing sound almost comedic, like a silly skit starring two tourists, a confusing pastry order, and a hundred-dollar tip. I'd even told her about the cranberry switcheroo like it was some mischievous prank.
I'd kept silent on the rest of it, especially my suspicion that her miracle mechanic would soon be leaving her high and dry.
God, what a shitshow.
As my thoughts churned, Ryder said, "But if you've got a ribeye…"
Oh, for God's sake. "We don't."
He gave me a long, unreadable look before his eyes shifted to something just past my shoulder. Absently, he said, "Good to know."
Like a chick in a monster flick, I turned slowly to see what was catching his eye. But I saw nothing – just the usual coffee goods and the door to the back.
Had Ryder spotted someone?
It wasn't completely impossible. At least ten times today, Skip had poked his head out of that same door, not to help, but to mock, monitor, and micromanage.
In the end, the only thing he'd "managed" was to make me even more twitchy.
Like, right now – as I stared at that connecting door – the sensation that I was being monitored from the front and the back was sending a tiny tingle down my spine.
When I whirled to look, sure enough, Ryder was staring – not at that door, but at me, like I was the one acting fishy.
Oh, please. He was acting so fishy, he could've had gills. As our eyes locked, I considered everything I knew.
Number one. Ryder Vaughn ran in the same Chicago circles as the source of my trouble.
Number two. Everywhere I went, there he was – Ryder, not Evan Carver. Obviously.
Number three. Ryder's associate – Griff, no last name, no paycheck – was haunting my roommate's shop.
And number four? Well, I was facing him now.
Finally, my nerves got the best of me, and I blurted out, "What are you looking at?"
Calm as ever, he replied, "I'm not looking. I'm waiting."
"For what?"
"For you to take my order."
I gave him an exasperated look. "Well, I would if you'd just give it to me." I held up a hand. "And before you ask, we don't have any T-bones lying around either."
Was I being rude? Probably. But after a sleepless night and this impromptu visit, my nerves were just about shot.
But Ryder? His nerves looked perfectly fine. As if to prove it, he shrugged, slow and easy, like we had all the time in the world. "Alright. Then how about a dozen pastries?"
Finally. "Terrific. What kind?"
With another look past my shoulder, he asked, "Do you have anything special in the back?"
Special? Like a secret cheesecake I'd been hoarding for myself?
I was still trying to make sense of it when he added, "If you want, I could check." And then, he gave me a significant look, like he was sending a hidden message.
But what kind of message?
A warning? A threat? The rules to a game I didn't know I was playing?
Belatedly, his statement hit home. "Wait…you could check?"
"Why not?" A new edge crept into his voice. "Could be fun."
For a brief moment, I half-wondered if "fun" was code for a quickie in the back – which, just for the record, would've been really awkward, considering that Skip's ass had formed a taproot into that stupid recliner.
I hadn't even begun to reply when Ryder strode forward as if preparing to hop over the counter. "Wait here," he said. "I'll be right back."
Seriously?
Well, if nothing else, that ruled out the quickie – unless he was going solo. And Skip would just love that.
I blurted out, "But you can't."
He stopped directly in front of me, with only the counter between us. "I can't what?"
"Go in the back room." And seriously, did I really need to spell it out?
His voice lowered to just a whisper. "Is that you saying that? Or someone else?"
I glanced around. "What, like I've got a puppet in my pocket?"
His gaze probed mine. "You're acting funny."
"Yeah? Well, you're acting funnier."
Again, his gaze shifted to the back. And then, speaking loud enough to carry, he called out, "If you think this is funny, you'd hate to see what I'd do to someone causing trouble."
What the hell? I was glaring now. "You're causing trouble."
He studied my face. "But just me?"
As opposed to what? Him and my pretend puppet? Feeling ready to pop, I demanded, "What's that supposed to mean?"
His voice remained low. "So…you're saying there's nobody else here?"
Well, that wasn't extra-fishy or anything. I felt my eyes narrow. "Why do you wanna know?"
Just then, I heard movement behind me. When I turned to look, Skip poked his head out through the swinging door. With a loud huff, he said, "Hey! Can you keep it down out here? Some of us are trying to focus."
Yeah, right. What he really meant was that we'd interrupted his nap.
And of course, Skip just had to add, "And where's your nametag?"
That thing? It was in the same place it always was – my pocket, because the clasp was supposedly broken. In reality, the nametag felt like one more clue I didn't want to give. "It fell off."
"Again?" He groaned like this was killing him. "You need to get a new one."
Right. Because I'd like nothing better than to spend my non-paycheck on something that would tell every Tom, Dick, or Harry my name.
When he disappeared into the back, I looked back to Ryder and squinted in confusion.
Suddenly, he was looking a lot more relaxed, like Skip had tossed him some happy-pills when I wasn't looking.
I asked, "You wanna tell me what I missed?"
"Who says you missed anything?" And then he smiled, looking annoyingly handsome with his golden blond hair, perfectly broad shoulders, and totally unfair face.
And don't get me started on his dimples.
They were faint, but unmistakable, like a secret weapon to make me go all gooey.
Damn it.
I'd always been a sucker for dimples.
But I refused to be distracted. "You're looking…I dunno…happier or something."
I waited for a denial, but it never came.
Instead, his smile widened, and he said on a chuckle, "Yeah, no kidding."