Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
“Um… yeah. She’s doing fine. Bossy as ever.” We both chuckle because it’s the right answer. “But that’s definitely not a secret.”
The bell on the door rings again and a trio of DOT workers sweep in on a tide of steel-toed boots. They take a seat in my section and I grab menus.
I look to Sam one last time. “It was good to see you. Your biscuit will be up in a second.”
“I’m not in a rush.”
“Unfortunately, I am,” I huff as I turn away.
“You should come to Chesty’s tonight,” he calls out, and I almost stumble as I glance over my shoulder at him. “Come have a drink on me. You’ve earned it.”
“I don’t know,” I say, pretending to consider, feeling the weight of Floyd and the Mancinkus trio’s stares on me. “I might fall asleep in my drink.”
“That’s okay. I make a mean pillow out of bar napkins.”
I bite my lip to stop the smile, fail miserably, and give up. “Maybe I will.”
Johnny yells, “Sam’s order’s up!” and I turn to see a brown paper bag with grease stains on it.
I grab it, hand it to Sam, and our fingers brush, sending goose bumps up my arms. “See you tonight,” he says and then nods at Floyd.
I watch as Sam leaves and for a second, I just… stand there. My pulse is ridiculous. My palms are sweating. My face, if the heat crawling up my neck is any indication, is definitely beet red.
It lasts exactly three Mississippi.
“That was some heavy-duty flirting,” Larkin sings.
“You’re red as a tomato,” Laken adds, chin in hand, delighted.
“Oh, stuff it, you two,” I say, which would be more convincing if my voice didn’t hop a register.
“Honey,” Mary-Margaret says, fanning herself for emphasis, “denial’s a sin too.”
Pap snorts, eager to throw in his two cents. “Lord help him if he gets involved with a Pritchard woman. They’re nothing but trouble.”
“Johnny,” I say desperately, “throw a pancake at someone.”
He grins, ignoring my request. “Darlin’, I only use my powers for good.”
“Then please define good as ‘rescuing me from my friends.’”
“Nope. This is better than morning TV.” He points his spatula at my face. “You got flour on your cheek. And a dreamy look on your face. Which you plan to wipe first?”
I swat at my face, mortified. “Neither. I’m fine.”
“You’re glowing,” Laken says.
“Like a jar of fireflies,” Larkin adds.
“Like a jar of embarrassment,” I mutter, heading toward the DOT crew.
But the truth hums under my skin, bright as neon and twice as hard to ignore. No matter how tired I am or how heavy this burden is to keep Central afloat while Muriel recuperates, Sam leaning on the counter and telling me I’m doing just fine quiets the noise a little. His faith in me is grounding.
I stack plates, refill cream, dodge Pap’s elbow, and point Floyd toward the tip jar when he starts waxing philosophical about the barter system. The door opens and closes. People come and go. Life does its thumping, happy thing.
And Sam’s invitation sits in my chest like a warm stone.
I’m bussing a table near the door when Larkin and Laken are walking out, but I don’t escape some last-minute advice.
“So,” Larkin says, nudging me with her shoulder. “Chesty’s tonight?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Your mouth said maybe,” Laken says, “but your face said yes.”
“My face says a lot when it’s being harassed by twins.”
“Encouraged,” Larkin corrects. “We’re encouraging.”
“Like personal trainers,” Laken adds. “But for romance.”
“Fantastic,” I say. “Do I get a cool-down stretch after?”
“Sure,” Larkin says. “It’s called kissing.”
“Out,” I tell them, pointing with my towel. “Before I make you bus tables.”
They scamper away, laughing victoriously.
CHAPTER 5
Sam
Wednesday nights at Chesty’s run slow and lazy. There’s no pool or dart leagues tonight and most everyone clears out after ten. In fact, there are many nights it’s just me and the jukebox turned on low until we close.
Tonight, no one’s fed a quarter into the music maker yet so there’s only a low buzz of chatter among a grand total of three customers sitting down at the opposite end of the bar from Pap. He’s almost done with his beer and I keep tabs on it, but his attention is pinned to a hockey game on TV as he follows his beloved Pittsburgh Titans. I’m using the quiet time to wash and dry empty mugs, giving me a head start on the evening cleanup I’ll finish after I shoo out the last customer.
The door opens and because I’ve been on alert, my head snaps that way, and yeah, in walks trouble wrapped in tired, yet still breathtakingly beautiful.
Penny sports the same outfit she wore this morning at Central Café. The flour’s gone from her cheek, the bun at the back of her head appears intentional again, and there’s a slick of gloss on sinful lips. She’s got the loose, floaty gait of someone who most certainly doesn’t look like she’s been on her feet all day running a restaurant.