Chapter 8
Everly
“Well. This was a new approach.”
I spin the lock behind Knox, avoiding my sister’s direct stare. The mess Knox and I made offers an easy focal point. I pick up an empty plastic bag. “Approach?”
“I’ve heard of flowers, or maybe a cup of fancy coffee—but a Christmas tree?”
I smirk. “Do you never watch Christmas movies?”
“Good one, sissy.” Her hands fist while she waves and undulates both arms and hips, jumping into a silly, off-kilter dance. “Everly has a boyfriend. Everly has a boyfriend!”
I swat her as I pass by. “No, Everly does not have a boyfriend.”
“She could if she wanted to.” Oakley gets in my face. “She wants to, riiight?” The right gets drawn out long and meaningfully.
“Wrong.”
“Ugh. You’re nuts.”
I swipe up an empty ornament box and dump it into the crinkly bag. “You’re nuts.”
“Come on, Ev. He’s a nice guy.”
I scrunch up a wad of cellophane wrapping and stuff it into the bag as well. “How do you know that?” You know it, Everly Anne.
“Oh, please. It’s obvious.”
I grind to a halt. Little sisters can be as pesky as mosquitos on a summer eve. “Do tell.”
She flicks her hand up, prepared to tick things off one by one. “He made solid eye contact with me. None of that shifty, looking around stuff.”
“Oh, goody. Eye contact. I’m sold.”
A second finger gets tagged. “His handshake was firm.”
“Book the chapel.”
She shimmies her head, snottily mimic-mouthing my sarcasm. “Aaand he has a great smile.” She pops in front of me, forcing me to look at her. “Go ahead. Deny it.”
She knows I can’t. How could I when the memory of said smile will tuck me into bed tonight and probably several more to come. Further—and I will most certainly keep this part to myself—the moment my heart knows he almost kissed me is lodged in concrete in my brain.
Fingers snap in front of my face. “You’re holding out on me, aren’t you?”
“Maybe, maybe not. My prerogative.”
She stomps her foot. “Ev-er-ly.”
I laugh. Having the upper hand on a kid sister is magical.
“Please tell me you’re not going to write this guy off because of something dumb, like he doesn’t wear a suit and tie to work.”
“Of course not.” How shallow does she think I am? But there are other reasons, reasons like…
“He’s cute, Ev. And he seems nice. Almost obnoxiously nice.” She snickers. “Besides, it’s time you let someone get the bad taste of Lance the Loser out of your mouth. That was years ago, and what’s his face at work shouldn’t even count.”
Boy, sisters have a way of pushing buttons and going too far. I scan the dining room, both near and far. The clock reads a quarter of eleven, and in addition to the decorating mess, three tables remain un-bused. “I have a question for you, Oakley.”
“Yes?” She’s eager, as if she’s a puppy and I have a treat in my hand.
“I admit Knox is interesting, and he’s definitely cute, but…”
“But?” She practically pants in my face.
I plant both fists on my hips. “If Knox is such a nice guy…why did he leave me with a giant mess to clean up?”
The flippant question stemmed the tide of date Knox nonsense Oakley flooded me with once he left. I wasn’t serious about the accusation of decorating-and-dashing.
She and I stayed until nearly midnight, though, cleaning and readying the diner for the breakfast crowd, her sniffling away with the remnants of her cold.
No, I don’t hold Knox at fault for the extra work or having to stay late. Every minute I spent with him was worth the late hour and the lost minutes of sleep once I was home in bed—yes, indeedy, tucked in by looping memories of his playful smiles and strong, steadying arms.
Oakley’s arrival totally threw off the mood…but what would have happened had my sister not derailed the course of the evening?
As I wipe down the sticky drink station following the Sunday breakfast rush, I contemplate the question that’s picked at me since Friday night.
Might Knox have kissed me? I think he was close to making a move there in the storage closet.
Of course, it’s good he didn’t. That would have been too soon, and plus, I was feeling a bit boxed-in in that tiny room.
I’ve kissed two men and two men only in my life. Both relationships bombed with lasting repercussions. Chalk one up for all the advocates of dating around before declaring any man to be the one.
My gaze wanders to a certain booth along the front window.
The middle-aged dude in biker garb filling the spot is not the man occupying my thoughts, the man who happens to be partial to that very table.
His failure to make an appearance yesterday left me unaccountably empty feeling as my Saturday wrapped up. Will today be different?
In need of corralling racing thoughts, I zip into the one-seater employee bathroom off the kitchen.
When I’m done, the near-empty soap bottle on the sink spits a drop of nondescript-scented liquid onto my hands, reminding me I can’t procrastinate any longer on a trip to the store for random items Uncle Charlie’s suppliers don’t provide.
The Christmas spirit has hit hard ever since decorating Knox’s tree, so I purpose to search out more festive fragrances, maybe cinnamon or gingerbread.
I need something to get me through the next month of this drab job.
Drab? I must say, last week wrapped without the tedium I’d expected. A certain broad-shouldered construction worker made rolling out of bed each morning easier. Weird. I’m not easily swayed when men approach me, and who would have thought a man as interesting as Knox would find me here.
I mean, not find me find me. Just…
Whatever. I’ve got work to do.
The flurry of the dining room quickly zaps my oomph—until a certain man with impressive shoulders and inspiring strength rings the bell above the door.
He seats himself at a four-topper table in the middle of the fray, stretches his arm across the top the adjacent chair, and studies the menu as if something new and wonderful might have materialized since Friday night.
No chance of that. Uncle Charlie hasn’t altered the selections in at least a decade, and that was only to remove liver and onions—his personal fav—because none of the young folks knows what tastes good these days.
Heart attack. Explained.
I tug at my ponytail, tightening it, and run my palm down the front of my shirt.
There’s nothing to be done, sadly, about the giant grease spot on the fabric at my midsection.
Nobody said waitressing was glamourous work.
I grab a cup and the coffee pot. The Christmas music I switched to following Friday night rushes from overhead speakers.
Instead of a utilitarian jacket or a flame-retardant work shirt, Knox wears a light blue dress shirt.
A silky tie in shades of blue and white is knotted at the throat, although I can see he’s loosened it a little and unfastened the top shirt button.
His cheeks are smoothly shaven, and his hair is un-warped from a day wearing it beneath a cap or hard hat, or whatever his norm is on the job.
A vision fills my head. Not sugarplums dancing around, but rather, Knox in a Santa hat, delivering gifts around the family circle, a baby in his arms—
I give my head a hard shake and go the extra mile of figuratively smacking myself upside it. Uh-uh. I barely know the guy, nor am I a fanciful person, despite my love of novels and romcoms. Knox’s and my relationship does not warrant this kind of ridiculousness.
Strike the word relationship. Acquaintance is more to the point.
I slide up from behind. “Hey, stranger.”
His smile dances like snow crystals following a storm. “Hey, there, Ev.”
Ev?
I bump my elbow to his shoulder. “You clean up alright.” Boy, does he. “Nearly didn’t recognize you without the mud.”
Lines tug around his eyes before softening into a smile. “Thanks.”
“Coffee?” I gnaw the inside of my cheek. Did I say something wrong? See, this is what happens. Any attempt at playfulness, much more flirtation, hits like a snowball with a rock inside.
He flips the white cup over on the saucer. “Please.”
“Church this morning?” My heart thumps, waiting. Church is where I’d have been myself if it weren’t for Uncle Charlie.
“Yep.” He sits back, arms folded, as I pour.
“Where are you attending?”
He surprises me with the name of a quaint little church of one of the more formal denominations near the old courthouse square. “My church at home is a lot different, but since I’m stuck on the road these days, I’ve decided to try different things. In this case, the building intrigued me.”
I nod, pouring slowly. “It’s a pretty church. I saw it once years ago when it was decked out for the historical society’s Christmas tour of old homes and such.”
“The service was nice, but the architecture is stunning, and definitely worth a visit for the stained glass alone.”
Knox is into stained glass and architecture? Huh.
A ruckus heralds from the kitchen. “Umm…” I glance between my favorite customer and a crashing sound coming from behind the swinging door I’m increasingly coming to think of as a portal to…
Never mind. Not on a Sunday.
“Go ahead, Everly. You’ve got a job to do.”
I scurry off, wondering what manufactured calamity Buck is going to throw at me this time.
I’ll bet he doesn’t give Uncle Charlie the kind of grief he dishes out to me.
He’s been cranky all morning, ever since he discovered the latest batch of bacon delivered was a different brand than he’s been frying up for the last five years.
I told him the switcheroo was the supplier’s doing, but he gave me a hot glare and insisted the issue never occurred when my uncle was at the helm.
This time, the complaint he sounds off on is that we’re low on eggs.
He isn’t wrong, and a shortage of that particular staple is a true issue in a diner heavily reliant on the breakfast hour to make ends meet.
The blame for this oversight does lie with me—but what can I say?
I’ve been out of the restaurant loop for some time now.
Since the lunch hour is officially upon us, my gut says we can squeak through the day with what we have on hand.
I do, however, placate the grumpy Gus as best I can and remove myself from his domain as quickly as feasible.
He’s quite territorial about his kitchen, a fact I’m genuinely thankful for.
The last thing I want to get sucked into is manning a greasy old grill.
A certain customer pulls me back to him as if a string was attached when I wasn’t looking and he’s using it to reel me in. I lift my pen and notepad. “Do you know what you want?”
Snow crystals dance once more, in the air and in his eyes, and there’s a pause before answering that makes my heart skip to Knox’s beat. “The special, please. Pot roast.”
I stick the back of my hand to my hip. “What, no pin the tail on the donkey today?”
His brows pucker at the center.
“You know…” Closing my eyes, I spin my finger and jab it at a pretend, midair menu.
Laughter vibrates his throat. “Um, no, no donkeys here.”
“Well, maybe one at the grill.”
Knox snort-laughs. “Did you just call your cook an—”
“Stop!” I chew my lip. “I guess this is what happens when I skip church.”
He chuckles in deep appreciation of my humor—and I feel seen. He sits back in the chair and the mood shifts with him. “You got a minute for a quick question?”
I glance about the frenzied dining room. For Knox, I have as many minutes as he wants. I mean, who’s going to tell? “Sure.”
His finger flicks the corner of the menu.
“The church I visited is having a Christmas cantata on Friday night. Like I said, the place is beautiful this time of year, and I’m feeling suddenly festive…
” His gaze drifts to the tree near the checkout counter.
“I was wondering if you’d like to go with me? ”
It is now official. I’ve tried the tired trope of girl pretending the guy who’s paying her attention isn’t actually interested and that said girl isn’t either, but I can’t spin Knox’s invitation in any other way that makes actual sense. More, why would I want it to?
Still, I chew my lip. “I have to work Friday.”
His smile isn’t irritated, but the shine has slipped. “I get it. I should have considered work. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Knox…”
“No worries, Everly.”
Maybe not for him, but I genuinely want to take him up on his offer. I take a quick breath and lay my hand on his shoulder. His nice shirt is soft beneath my fingers. “Let me think how I could work things. Can I get back to you in a day or two?”
“That’d be great.” He hands me the menu, the tenor of his smile still tough to gauge.
I scurry off, mulling his mellowness.
Tina, one of Uncle Charlie’s most recent hires, informs me Buck has botched three orders in a row.
Grumble-sighing, I seek out the grouch and find a tornado of drama.
This time, his rumblings accuse the waitstaff of multiple screwups—but if I were to venture a guess, he’s missing Uncle Charlie, or at least the predictability of every shift where his longtime boss was running the show.
After the fussy baby is soothed, he plates Knox’s order and I back through the swiveling door.
Knox’s chair sits empty, jutting into the walk space. I glance down the hallway leading to the restrooms. Too much coffee this morning?
But as I set the plate of pot roast, mashed potatoes, and corn on the table, I notice a twenty wedged beneath his mug. Marlene breezes past.
“Did you see where Knox went?”
She stops only long enough to squeeze my arm. “I’m sorry, sugar. He left.”