Chapter 4 #2
I shake away impending thoughts of love and marriage, things that have become murky concepts over the last year, and settle into a booth along the front windows.
The duct-taped vinyl squeaks as my not inconsiderable bulk slides across it.
The menu I take from where it’s propped against the window sticks to my fingers.
I’m not easily grossed out, but I file the plastic trifold back into its spot and try another one.
I plant my fist against my cheek, stare at the list of choices, and assess my food mood.
Footsteps halting at the table bring a swirl of sweet perfume that wraps around me. “You have a lot of nerve.”
The fired-off words? Not sweet.
Icy blue eyes stare me down like I’m one of the cockroaches I’m certain must be squatters in the deep recesses of this place, critters that emerge once the lights go out.
I feel myself blink and search the waitress’s face for a trace of tease. “I’m sorry…what?”
She sticks balled fists to the curves of her hips. “In case you aren’t aware, dine-and-dashers don’t typically return to the scene of the crime, much less expect to be served when they get there.”
Dine-and—
I lay the menu down. “What are you talking about?”
“You were here on Tuesday and you didn’t pay.” Accusation draws her cheeks tight.
I sit back. “I most certainly did not dine and dash. I left a twenty.”
“Did not.”
“Did too.”
Her ponytail sweeps one shoulder as she stares at me from a tilted head. “All the other guys left money on top of their tickets. You did not.”
I distinctly recall otherwise. I got a call, took out a twenty…
My eyes squeeze shut, my hand fists on my thigh. “Mike.”
Her head tilts. “Mike?”
“Yeah, he was ticked that I called him out when—”
Her forehead puckers—and even that looks good on this woman. “When what?”
“Never mind.” I self-censor. No need to further kill conversation by bringing up my coworker’s crudeness.
Resigned, shaking my head, I shift onto one hip and dig my wallet from my pocket. This time, I pluck out two twenties. One for the bill and one for her trouble.
The waitress eyes the green notes like they’re a pair of those crunchy black bugs I was just envisioning. With a sigh more exasperated than what I feel I deserve, she stuffs them into her apron. “You’re lucky I don’t report you.”
Probably so. Defending myself, however, would require rehashing Mike’s nastiness, and doing so with the lady I tried to spare in the first place violates my sense of decency.
Even as her arctic eyes frost my soul, I’m fixated on how their beauty lights up the evening.
My mouth has a mind of its own. “You’re lucky you got paid forty bucks for a ten dollar meal.”
“The meal was fifteen dollars.”
Right, I added a bowl of soup. “Fifteen. My mistake.”
Her chin juts enough to let me know she’s toying with a zinger, and I wait with bated breath. Sparring with a beautiful woman easily marks the highpoint of this day.
The sharp slant of her shoulders slowly releases, signaling I’m probably going to be allowed to order, but her acquiescence also robs me of the pleasure of verbal repartee.
I drum my fingers on the plastic menu. “Do I get to eat or not?”
One of her eyes squints hard. I tilt toward the aisle and peek. Yep, her toe is tapping.
All flustered, wavering between skepticism and belief in the goodness of my nature, she’s even prettier than before. Her pink lips puff out an exhale. “Fine, but pay at the register this time.”
I grin. “It’s a date.” Nice, Knox. You actually do got game.
Her eyes flare before she whips the order pad in front of her face, hiding her gorgeous eyes—which may have begun rolling before she blocked my view. “Still need a minute to look over the menu?”
“Hmm.” I lay a pair of fingers against my cheek and scan the center page of the menu. “How’s the chili?”
“How strong is your stomach?”
My head snaps up. Her pen taps, and her mouth pulls hard to the side with sarcasm but necessarily humor. Alrighty then. “Uh…” I execute a half turn to the specials board over my shoulder. “You still got any of the enchilada casserole?”
“I do.”
“Is it safe?”
She bobs a shoulder. “Should be. We let the rats lick the last pan clean, and they seem to have survived.”
Coughing laughter sputters in my throat. Her eyes twinkle like Christmas lights, only for a flash, but…wow.
Her lips pucker. She gives the order pad a final hard thump with the pen. “I probably ought not have said that.”
Ya think? “All in good fun, right?”
Her overlong pause has me wondering.
Our eyes slam together like north and south on a pair of magnets.
“Of course.” She snatches the menu clean out of my hand and runs to the kitchen so fast it temporarily sends my brain into a stall.
Slowly, , and I realize that not only did she not ask what dressing I wanted on the salad that comes with the special, she also absconded with a menu that, judging by every other table in the establishment, belongs right here at the table.
Were I my brother, I’d be confident my charm had worked its magic. I am not him, however. Women don’t take one look and sidle up. I mean, I can round up a date when necessary, but nope, the women-falling-at-the-feet thing is his department.
I sigh. Could be the lady’s swing from nasty accusation to edgy humor is a siren warning me off my plans.
Do I have plans?
Um, yeah, I believe I do. Not fully formed ones yet, but…let the strategy planning session commence. This particular waitress is far too pretty and far too interesting to not make every attempt to know her better.
Straight-up ask her name? Our rough start complicates the otherwise reasonably simple move.
“You-hoo, Everly! I’m off now.”
The unnaturally platinum-haired waitress, the one Cliff absolutely never chats up every single time we’re in for lunch, swings into the dining room from the kitchen. Around her neck, she wraps a feathery pink boa. A purse with glaring rhinestones sways from one arm. “See you in the morning, sugar.”
With slumping shoulders suggesting she’d prefer to be the one clocking out, my waitress…Everly…smiles tiredly and says she’ll see her coworker in the morning.
No. Way. I am never this lucky.
Cold air zips around my stocking feet as the front door swats closed.
Everly. What a wispy, melodic name.
Again and again, I roll it over in my mind. Can’t seem to stop. I test it softly on my tongue.
Several minutes later, I’m deep in the middle of devising Operation Everly when a white crock of chili topped with grated cheese slides smack under my nose.
“I left off the onions. No one needs that complication this late at night.”
I blink up into the prettiest of faces. “I thought we agreed chili was a no?”
She shrugs slim shoulders encased in a fitted black t-shirt. “It’s on the house. This way you’ll know for next time.”
I hover my nose above the bowl, inhaling. “Thanks.”
Everly whirls away, taking with her my chance to practice the lovely name aloud. Next time.
Two tables away, she about-faces, her gaze at a low angle. “Where on earth are your shoes?”
I track her line of sight to my wool socks. Oh, that. I wiggle my toes. “In the entrance. Boots were muddy.” I insert the spoon into the steaming cup and dunk the melting shreds of cheese into the mix.
“Well, I never…”
Peeking, I await the rest of the sentence. The spoon clinks to a halt against the side of the bowl. Our gazes do an encore of that slamming-into-each-other thing.
My heart thuds. Everly’s cheeks turn rosy.
“Never mind.” She twirls away, leaving me watching her lovely departure as long as I dare. A man’s got to be able to sleep at night, and thinking of Everly’s figure won’t help that.
Whew.
Blinking out of my stupor, I test the chili. Like my new favorite waitress, the spicy concoction is hot. In its case, both temp and spice-wise, so yeah, I’ll save a full bowl for the lunch hour. Antacids are stowed in my desk drawer.
Fanning my mouth, I scoot the bowl to the edge of the table and glance about. Um, water please?
As if the feisty spices burning a trail down my esophagus are visible, Everly zooms onto the scene with a glass of ice water. “I can see you already need this. Sorry, forgot earlier. Can I get you anything else? Tea? Coffee?”
Her cheeks shimmer with a rose-colored glow.
“Water’s great. Thanks.” I lift the glass and pour an icy stream down my throat.
Twitchy-lipped, she smirks. “Oh, and what dressing on that salad? Italian again?”
I swallow. “Italian would be great, thanks.”
It isn’t until she’s scurried off that it dawns on me she remembered my order from Tuesday. Don’t make too much of it, Knox.
While there’s nothing I’d like more than to watch Everly work, I’m starting at a deficit as it is. No need to add stalker to suspected dine-and-dasher. I tap open a news app and peruse headlines, peeking toward the kitchen every so often.
Minutes later, I press my back into the aged vinyl as Everly sets down a bowl of salad and plops a teeming plate of cheesy goodness between my fisted hands.
“Um, that’s a lot of casserole.” Like, almost more than the plate can contain.
“End of the day. I scraped the pan.”
“Would that be the same pan the rats licked?”
Her lower lip rolls in—and I’d like to coax it back out. With my lips.
Whoopsie. Back on track, brain.
She folds her arms almost protectively, “I really ought not have made that joke.”
“As long as it was only a joke, we’re good.” I grin.
She chews her lip in a most distracting way. I imagine she doesn’t want to get in trouble with the boss.
I grip the spoon. Smile.
The moment—absent a denial—stretches. “So…thanks for the extra food.”
She stops gnawing. “You’re welcome. You look like the kind of guy who can handle it.”