Page 17 of Matchmaking On The Menu

I blink. “You noticed that?”

“You notice things too,” he says gently. “You see people like headlines.”

My stomach drops.

“How would you know that?”

“I heard you,” he says, amused.

I freeze.

DEATH BY HUMILIATION IMMINENT.

“You heard me?”

“Just one. Something about devastating when focused. To be fair you were only two feet away when you said it.”

I want the ground to swallow me whole. He grins. Not mocking. Just delighted.

“For what it’s worth,” he adds, “I’m flattered.”

I need to be more careful, I wonder how many other headlines I’ve blurted out without realizing. I splutter an awkward “enjoy your meal” and retreat to the sound of his amused and sinfully sexy chuckle. Over the next hour, I find myself orbiting his table, topping up his coffee twice, and asking if he needs ketchup like I didn’t already leave it there.

He asks about the town. About my grandma. About whether business is better in summer or winter. He continues to listen like the answers matter.

But when I ask about him, he sidesteps with practiced grace. “Do you always interview your waitresses?” I tease.

“Only the interesting ones.”

My breath catches just for a second. Before I can respond, Llewellen calls my name. “Dannica, supplier’s back on the line!”

Of course, perfect timing. I straighten. “Duty calls.”

“Story calls,” he corrects quietly.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m sure you’ll have a headline or two creeping up.”

Something about that hits harder than it should. Mostly because lately, headlines are all I’m writing. I hesitate before turning on my heel and heading to the kitchen before I can embarrass myself any further. My pulse is still thrumming like it’s training for a marathon, and I have absolutely no intention of examining why. Typical. The first interesting thing that’s happened all week had to happen right after Grandma dropped a life-altering decision in my lap.

To distract myself from my depressing thoughts, I focus on walking away so I don’t bump into any more furniture. Why does walking away from a complete stranger suddenly feel like a test I didn’t study for? Am I leaning left? Is my ass jiggling? Are my shoulders doing something suspicious? Ugh, if they are, I can’t do anything about it.

Don’t look back, Dannica.

Don’t. Look. Back.

By the time I finish with Mike, Mystery Man has disappeared.

Damn. My stomach dips, which is insane. I don’t know the first thing about him. He could chew loudly or collect antique spoons. And even if he didn’t, it wouldn’t matter, I don’t want a relationship right now. I can’t think of a relationship when I’m still deciding whether I’m going to stay here in Boudica Springs.

Wiping my hands on my apron, I head over to clear the table, trying not to look like I’m checking the door for signs of his return. It was just banter, that’s all. A refreshing conversation that wasn’t about extra gravy or complaints about the price of eggs. His plate is empty, coffee drained, and tucked neatly under the bill tray is a fifty. On a fifteen-dollar meal!

Crazy out-of-towner.

And I would absolutely tell him that, except I’m probably never going to see him again. Figures. Around here, the only things that stick are responsibilities.

As the last customer leaves a few hours later, I slide the final bills into the bank bag, the zipper rasping louder than it should in the quiet.