Page 23 of Cash

One of my employees had been in a relationship with a biker for a long time. I hadn’t heard her mention him for a while and wondered if he was still around, or if he’d pushed Tisha away.

I hoped Jennifer was wrong. I stared back at her, wondering if, for once, she was right.

* * *

After wipinghis plate clean with the corner of his bread, he poked the last remaining piece into his mouth and leaned away from the table. “You’re not a chef, or anything, are you?”

What he was wearing resembled what he’d worn the other three times that I’d seen him: Jeans, a tee shirt, and boots. The gray shirt was free of any logos or sayings, and clung to his body tightly, leaving nothing to the imagination.

The fitted shirt, when combined with his whisker-free jaw and tight-fitting jeans, made him look less rugged, but no less harmful. He had an unmistakable presence about him that warned anyone with an ounce of common sense to turn the other direction.

I wondered if that, at least in part, was one of the things that drew me to him. I peeled my eyes away from his handsome face and met his gaze. “No. I’m not a chef.”

“Maybe you should be. Woman, you can cook.” He patted his flattened hands against his stomach. “I can’t believe you made that bread from scratch.”

“Bread is as simple as it gets,” I said. “Sugar, salt, flower, and yeast. That’s it.”

“It tasted more complicated than that.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Well, that was as fine of a meal as I’ve ever eaten, and I’ve eaten from California to Connecticut, and from Seattle to Sarasota.”

Hearing a man pay such a compliment to my cooking made me swell with confidence. I’d spent my adult life cooking for someone who expected everything and appreciated absolutely nothing. The change was welcomed.

Beaming with pride, I flashed a smile. “Thank you.”

He gave a slight nod. “I was taught to give credit where credit is due.”

“I’m glad you liked it.”

“So, if you’re not a chef, what do you do for a living?”

“I sell awesome shoes to women who want to wear something fashionable, yet affordable.”

He grinned. “Shoes, huh?”

“I’ve got a little boutique in Old Town.”

“Must be successful at it. Old Town is pricey when it comes to rent.”

It surprised me that he knew how overpriced the area was. I rolled my eyes let out a breath of frustration. “It is, but I love the location. I basically break even every month. If it was somewhere affordable, I’d make money. I doubt that it’d be as successful, though.”

His brows knitted together. “How do you get by?”

“I’ve got a little nest egg my parents left me,” I admitted. “I live off the interest.”

“Must be a hell of a nest egg to live off the interest,”

A twinge of regret poked at me for mentioning my inheritance. I wasn’t embarrassed about living off it, but it certainly wasn’t a source of pride, either. Furthermore, I rarely mentioned it to anyone, and telling Cash about it seemed rather premature.

“I live modestly,” I said. Hoping to change the subject, I arched a curious eyebrow. “What do you do?”

“I manage car washes.”

It wasn’t at all what I expected. “I bet that’s a pretty stress-free gig.”

“It is. Keep the chemicals filled, make sure the pumps aren’t leaking, and keep the mud traps cleaned on a regular basis. We use the best soaps and waxes there are, so the customers stay pretty happy.”