One of her eyes squints hard. I tilt toward the aisle and peek. Yep, her toe is tapping.
All flustered, wavering between skepticism and belief in the goodness of my nature, she’s even prettier than before. Her pink lips puff out an exhale. “Fine, but pay at the register this time.”
I grin. “It’s a date.”Nice, Knox. You actually do got game.
Her eyes flare before she whips the order pad in front of her face, hiding her gorgeous eyes—which may have begun rolling before she blocked my view. “Still need a minute to look over the menu?”
“Hmm.” I lay a pair of fingers against my cheek and scan the center page of the menu. “How’s the chili?”
“How strong is your stomach?”
My head snaps up. Her pen taps, and her mouth pulls hard to the side with sarcasm but necessarily humor. Alrighty then. “Uh…” I execute a half turn to the specials board over my shoulder. “You still got any of the enchilada casserole?”
“I do.”
“Isitsafe?”
She bobs a shoulder. “Should be. We let the rats lick the last pan clean, and they seem to have survived.”
Coughing laughter sputters in my throat. Her eyes twinkle like Christmas lights, only for a flash, but…wow.
Her lips pucker. She gives the order pad a final hard thump with the pen. “I probably ought not have said that.”
Ya think? “All in good fun, right?”
Her overlong pause has me wondering.
Our eyes slam together like north and south on a pair of magnets.
“Of course.” She snatches the menu clean out of my hand and runs to the kitchen so fast it temporarily sends my brain into a stall. Slowly, , and I realize that not only did she not ask what dressing I wanted on the salad that comes with the special, she also absconded with a menu that, judging by every other table in the establishment, belongs right here at the table.
Were I my brother, I’d be confident my charm had worked its magic. I am not him, however. Women don’t take one look and sidle up. I mean, I can round up a date when necessary, but nope, the women-falling-at-the-feet thing is his department.
I sigh. Could be the lady’s swing from nasty accusation to edgy humor is a siren warning me off my plans.
Do I have plans?
Um, yeah, I believe I do. Not fully formed ones yet, but…let the strategy planning session commence. This particular waitress is far too pretty and far too interesting to not make every attempt to know her better.
Straight-up ask her name? Our rough start complicates the otherwise reasonably simple move.
“You-hoo, Everly! I’m off now.”
The unnaturally platinum-haired waitress, the one Cliff absolutely never chats up every single time we’re in for lunch, swings into the dining room from the kitchen. Around her neck, she wraps a feathery pink boa. A purse with glaring rhinestones sways from one arm. “See you in the morning, sugar.”
With slumping shoulders suggesting she’d prefer to be the one clocking out, my waitress…Everly…smiles tiredly and says she’ll see her coworker in the morning.
No. Way.I am never this lucky.
Cold air zips around my stocking feet as the front door swats closed.
Everly. What a wispy, melodic name.
Again and again, I roll it over in my mind. Can’t seem to stop. I test it softly on my tongue.
Several minutes later, I’m deep in the middle of devising Operation Everly when a white crock of chili topped with grated cheese slides smack under my nose.
“I left off the onions. No one needs that complication this late at night.”
