Chapter 4 #3
Since she’s been generous almost to a fault, I produce a smile.
Being able to eat myself under the table ceased to be a point of pride by about age fifteen.
Then, I basked in references to my stature, and I was proud of the way I could mow down defenders on the field.
I’ve always been strong, too. But life moved along, and once I was done playing a silly game and on to other pursuits, the constant remarks prickled.
Being touchy isn’t a great character quality, but hey, I got stuff going on between my ears, too.
I swear people take one look and assume I’m as dumb as I am big.
My squeezed out attempt at pleasantry must not have been my best effort. Everly sends her gaze on a journey over my face, a tiny pinch between her eyes.
And that fast, she’s forgiven—because Mr. Nice Guy is a scoundrel at heart. I’m going to kiss that lip silly one day.
Whoa, there, big fella.
Given how she nods once and scampers off like a spooked animal, I don’t believe I’m too far off in assuming my face communicated at least some measure of my thoughts.
Where is all this coming from? I’m not known for impulsivity, and I am particular where dating is concerned. When I’m participating in the world of dating, that is. Since the last time the trees were trimmed, I’ve loitered on the sidelines and contemplated retirement.
Eh. My gut has always known that wasn’t going to happen. Timing is the only question mark.
Until…now?
Probably I need to slow my roll. I don’t know a blooming thing about this woman except for the fact that she’s Charlie’s-chili hot.
But in a nice way. The I-could-bring-this-woman-home-to-mom way. The depth of her gaze holds intelligence and character. She’s funny too. A frightening kind of funny, but funny.
The casserole is delicious and tastes from-scratch enough to whip up a helping of homesickness. Honey, the best grandmother in the world, makes something similar. And speaking of Honey, no one in my life would cheer more than she if I reentered the world of relationships.
Everly’s generosity doesn’t outpace my appetite. I eat every bite, with room for more. Breakfast was a gas station sausage biscuit, and lunch didn’t happen.
I’m all by my lonesome the next time I take a gander about the dining room.
The place has fallen silent except for rattling sounds emanating from the kitchen.
I toss my jacket over my arm and slide from the booth.
At the checkout counter, I roll a toothpick from the dispenser, bite down, and look around. No Everly, and no bell for service.
A full minute passes while I listen to escalating racket come from the kitchen. I walk to the door with a round window in it and tap on the glass. “Um, Everly?”
Seconds later, the door opens a crack. She peeks around, an adorable little v above her eyes. “How do you know my name?”
“The other waitress said it when she left.”
If anything, my explanation activates further consternation, which is not the direction I want things to go. For good measure, I retreat a step. When you’re a big guy, sometimes you intimidate without meaning to.
She still doesn’t seem to know what to make of me.
I don’t have the same skillset when it comes to charm that my brother has, but I do receive the occasional remark on my smile. Something about dimples.
Okay, if they say so.
I unleash the spread of the lips that’s earned the comment in the past. “I need to pay out.”
Her lashes fly high, rewarding my effort. “Oh.” She glances toward the cash register, then back, mischief making merry in her exceptionally blue eyes. “You know, lots of people just leave money on the table.”
A comedian, is she? I pull my mouth to the side as if considering the suggestion. “Nah, getting arrested isn’t on this Christmas’s wish list.”
“Yeah, what is on—” She shakes her head. “Never mind.”
The door flaps closed, but five seconds later, Everly backs through it lugging a large, taped-up box. I try not to enjoy the show too much, and then her cute backside collides with a chair, delivering me and spurring me into tardy action.
I spring into motion and sling the box onto my shoulder. “Where do you want it?”
She scowls, pressing her fists to the holly red apron at her hips. “I had that.”
“Yep, and now I do. Where does it go?”
Eyes rolling, she points to the checkout counter.
I set the box down in a spot that appears recently cleared. A green extension cord is plugged into the wall nearby. “This good?”
“Perfect.” She swipes her hands down her jeans and moves to the cash register, putting her hand out for the ticket. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Very welcome. I lean my elbow on the counter, which by default, brings us closer. “Anything else I can help you with?”
Her eyes flare. Shoot. I’m not convinced that didn’t emerge a bit differently than intended.
Straightening, I hand her the ticket. Our fingers touch in the process, accidentally on purpose. I wouldn’t describe the contact as electric, but only because I’m not big on clichés. I am, however, wholly satisfied, because I sense the incidental contact registers with her as it did with me.
A piece of hair from her drooping ponytail hides her face as she punches numbers into the machine. “Twelve-ninety.”
“Boy, that’s a bargain.” Coat bunched under my arm, I hand her the twenty I had at the ready.
“Cheap and Charlie often wind up in the same sentence.”
Laughter gurgles out, a spontaneous response I couldn’t have helped even had I thought fast enough to consider censoring.
Everly bites her lip in that special way already branded into my gray matter. “I think that fell somewhere in line with the rats comment—better unsaid. Sorry. Long day. Not that it’s an excuse.” She mashes a button and the drawer pops open with a ding.
“Keep the change.”
Her blue eyes lock on. “That’s a mighty big tip.”
“The service was mighty great.”
Her chin notches up, drawing my attention to the gentle curve of her throat. “I don’t need it, you know?”
The compliment? Because who doesn’t need cash? I don’t see how anyone could make much around this place. “Keep it anyway. I hate change rattling around in my pocket.”
“Yeah, those dollar bills make a lot of racket.” But she pockets the bills and a single dime in her apron.
She’s so pretty.
She bats back the loose hair. “Um, is there something else I can get for you?”
You.
Wait, what?
“Nope. I’m good.”
Fantastic. Just maybe I was staring. I tuck my wallet away and turn for the door, figuring my own face might have become the same shade as hers. I am kind of a dumb ox sometimes. Tonight has been a weird combo of flirtation and foot-in-mouth disease.
“Hey.”
I spin. “Yeah?”
She’s still working that lip. “On second thought, could I ask a favor?”
She can ask ten favors.
“I know it’s late, but there’s another box—”
My coat is over the nearest chair before her sentence is complete. “Show me.”
She sizes me up, then leads the way. I stop one step inside the swinging door. “Are you here alone?”
Everly spins.
I flip my palms up. “Just asking. I expected a cook or something.”
She executes a sidestep. An intentional move to within reach of the butcher block filled with knives?
“Well, the dish washer never showed, and my cook must have told me fifty times his back hurt. I sent him home once you ordered the casserole. Figured I could scrape food from a pan as well as he could. Trust me. You do not want to see me in the kitchen.”
Oh, I don’t know. A startlingly clear imagination forms. Everly perched on the counter while I stir up a batch of Gampy’s famous gumbo on Christmas Eve.
Trading kisses every chance we get.
I blink the vision, foolish thing, into oblivion. “Nope. Wouldn’t want to see that. Never ever.”
She tilts her head at me funny. More like I’m funny—the alien-from-space kind of amusing.
I clap my palms together. “Alright. Whatcha got for me?”
She holds her ground near the knives and points to the opening of a short hallway. A long, narrow box stands on end.
“A Christmas tree?”
“Nice work, detective. Would you mind carrying it out front?”
Mind? I’ll use my muscles in Everly’s service any time, any place.
I swing the thing onto my shoulder. She rushes ahead for the door.
On an educated guess, I set the box down beside the first one.