Chapter 3 #2
I pick up my fork and take a bite, thankful to finally be able to eat my dinner and that it’s still warm, smiling pointedly at her as I chew.
She nods in understanding, then with her eyes she gestures to the guy behind her and gives me a small thumbs-up tucked close to her body so her date can’t see.
I don’t recognize the man. I’m not sure if he’s a native of Little Creek or a resident of one of the other small towns lining Highway 411 or even if he made the trip from Cleveland or Chattanooga, but he looks nonhomicidal.
Which, on a first date from an app, is pretty much the best you can hope for.
He’s basketball-player tall with a willow-like build and what appears to be an easy smile.
All in all, her type. Personally, I prefer not to have to crane my neck to look a man in the eyes or to feel as if I can beat him in an arm-wrestling contest.
I give Hayley a little wave as she and her date are seated in the corner before taking another bite of my meal. Why is Italian food so yummy? I stifle a groan of pleasure as I chew. Gnocchi are little heavenly potato pillows, and I can die a happy woman right now.
A chuckle has my eyes popping open. Funny, because I hadn’t even realized I’d closed them. I blink, the man sitting across from me coming into focus.
Tai Davis is smirking in a knowing way, staring at me as if he’s privy to a secret no one has let me in on.
Oops. The plan had been not to draw attention to myself. Not to give him a reason to think he’d seen me before.
Also, what does he know that I don’t?
I dab at the corner of my lip with my napkin.
“I think I need to change my order and get what you’re having.” He grins. “You seem to be really enjoying it.”
I place my napkin back in my lap. “I am,” I say primly, hoping to erase from his mind whatever sound of enjoyment I’d made that probably wasn’t all that appropriate in public.
My response fuels his amusement for some reason, and his smile grows.
This is the first time I’ve really gotten the chance to look at him outside of profile.
His eyes have the most interesting shape, and when he smiles, it’s like the ends of his lips reach up and tug at the corners of his eyes, cajoling them to join in on the fun.
He doesn’t just smile with his mouth. He smiles with his whole face.
“I’m Tai Davis, by the way.”
I nearly say yes, I know but catch myself just in time. If I acknowledge I know his name, then he’ll wonder how I know it, and I’ll have to admit to finding his information in the library system. “Evangeline Kelly.”
I lower my attention back to my food, hoping he’ll lose interest in our exchange.
I don’t want to risk there being a moment of recognition because I don’t want to have to explain my earlier stalking.
Although I stand by being a literary crusader, I’m not above feeling embarrassed by my tendency to go overboard.
“Evangeline.” He says my name like he’s tasting each of the syllables, savoring the feel of them on his tongue.
An involuntary shiver shoots down my spine, and I stiffen against my body’s response.
How is it possible that he makes the simple act of saying my name sound so intimate?
Feeling exposed, I reflexively touch the base of my skull.
My lungs deflate in relief as my fingertips come in contact with my wig.
This interaction, brief as it’s been, is quickly draining me on multiple levels. I need to find a polite way to close the conversation so I can recover. I offer him a small smile, then pick up my fork and resume my meal. There, that should do it.
“It’s a pretty name.”
I lower my fork and take a sip of water. “Thank you.” Polite. Succinct. No invitation to continue our little tête-à-tête.
“Do you go by Evangeline or a nickname? Evie or Linny, perhaps?”
I look up at him. He’s still grinning at me. Still has that secret-knowing smirk in place.
I don’t want to appear rude, but I’m running out of ways to graciously extricate myself from this conversation. “Evangeline,” I say, tight-lipped.
And Penelope is Penelope, not Penny. Granny overheard us trying out nicknames once and immediately shut that down.
She said our names are one thing our parents gave us.
That if they wanted us to be called Evie and Penny, they would have done so, and that using the names they’d given us was one way to honor their memory and feel closer to them.
As far as I know, neither of us have allowed anyone to use a shortened version of our names ever since.
“Good.” His pronouncement, said in such a final and authoritative manner, as if his opinion matters in any way possible, makes me raise my eyes.
But as I’m lifting my gaze, he’s lowering his and directing his attention to the open book in front of him.
My shoulders hit the back rest of the chair as I sigh in relief at the reprieve from being the center of his attention. Anxiety unwinds from my muscles. I must be better at the sleuthing thing than I thought. My lips tip in self-satisfaction.
A server arrives at Tai’s table with a steaming plate of spaghetti and meatballs. Tai moves his book—still open—to the side to make room in front of him so she can set down the plate.
I wait. Surely he’s going to put the book away. Close the cover at least. It’s a hardback with a protective jacket, so as long as the book is closed, the cover and pages within won’t get ruined. A wet wipe will clean any food that might splatter.
He picks up his fork. Twirls spaghetti noodles on the tines.
I picture a meatball falling from the utensil. Red sauce splattering over the pages. Stains. Smears. Carnage.
“Wait!”
He stops moving. The fork in the air, his mouth open.
I clear my throat. What’s a polite way to tell a person to cease and desist committing crimes of a bookish nature? “Um. What are you reading?”
He lowers his fork and picks up the publication, showing me the cover. “Unbroken by Laura Hillenbrand.” He moves to set the book back on the table.
“Can I see it?”
One brow slowly rises. “You haven’t read it?”
I have. And seen the movie. But if I admit that, then there’s no reason for him to hand me the book where I can keep it safe from marinara sauce and flying meatballs. But good southern girls don’t lie. At least not outright. I settle for a smile instead.
He looks to the left, at something over my shoulder, and his brows collapse above the bridge of his straight nose. “I think someone’s trying to get your attention.”
Dagnabit. I’ve totally forgotten about Hayley. I tap my phone screen as I turn. 7:25. Hayley’s eyes are wide and accusing. Sorry! I mouth and quickly click on her name in my contacts. Ringing sounds through my phone and trills in the corner of the restaurant. Hayley picks up.
“I’m sorry. I lost track of time.”
“What? Oh no. Don’t worry. I’ll be right there.” Her voice is full of forced fake concern. Guess her date wasn’t exactly her type after all.
A few seconds later, she marches out of the restaurant, throwing a glare over her shoulder in my direction.
I stand to follow her out, needing to apologize again, and give my half-eaten dinner a final mournful look.
The sacrifice of uneaten gnocchi should be penance, but I’m not sure Hayley will see it that way.
Maybe I should snag Sheriff Jacobs for protection just in case she’s not yet in a forgiving mood.
As I pass Tai’s table, he grins at me. “See you later, Miss Marian.”
It takes a second to catch his reference to The Music Man, but when I do, my step falters. Curse my inability to channel the essence of Nancy Drew with any amount of success.