The moment—absent a denial—stretches. “So…thanks for the extra food.”
She stops gnawing. “You’re welcome. You look like the kind of guy who can handle it.”
Since she’s been generous almost to a fault, I produce a smile. Being able to eat myself under the table ceased to be a point of pride by about age fifteen. Then, I basked in references to my stature, and I was proud of the way I could mow down defenders on the field. I’ve always been strong, too. But life moved along, and once I was done playing a silly game and on to other pursuits, the constant remarks prickled. Being touchy isn’t a great character quality, but hey, I got stuff going on between my ears, too. I swear people take one look and assume I’m as dumb as I am big.
My squeezed out attempt at pleasantry must not have been my best effort. Everly sends her gaze on a journey over my face, a tiny pinch between her eyes.
And that fast, she’s forgiven—because Mr. Nice Guy is a scoundrel at heart. I’m going to kiss that lip silly one day.
Whoa, there, big fella.
Given how she nods once and scampers off like a spooked animal, I don’t believe I’m too far off in assuming my face communicated at least some measure of my thoughts.
Where is all this coming from? I’m not known for impulsivity, and I am particular where dating is concerned.WhenI’m participating in the world of dating, that is. Since the last time the trees were trimmed, I’ve loitered on the sidelines and contemplated retirement.
Eh. My gut has always known that wasn’t going to happen. Timing is the only question mark.
Until…now?
Probably I need to slow my roll. I don’t know a blooming thing about this woman except for the fact that she’s Charlie’s-chili hot.
But in a nice way. The I-could-bring-this-woman-home-to-mom way. The depth of her gaze holds intelligence and character. She’s funny too. A frightening kind of funny, but funny.
The casserole is delicious and tastes from-scratch enough to whip up a helping of homesickness. Honey, the best grandmother in the world, makes something similar. And speaking of Honey, no one in my life would cheer more than she if I reentered the world of relationships.
Everly’s generosity doesn’t outpace my appetite. I eat every bite, with room for more. Breakfast was a gas station sausage biscuit, and lunch didn’t happen.
I’m all by my lonesome the next time I take a gander about the dining room. The place has fallen silent except for rattling sounds emanating from the kitchen. I toss my jacket over my arm and slide from the booth. At the checkout counter, I roll atoothpick from the dispenser, bite down, and look around. No Everly, and no bell for service.
A full minute passes while I listen to escalating racket come from the kitchen. I walk to the door with a round window in it and tap on the glass. “Um, Everly?”
Seconds later, the door opens a crack. She peeks around, an adorable littlevabove her eyes. “How do you know my name?”
“The other waitress said it when she left.”
If anything, my explanation activates further consternation, which is not the direction I want things to go. For good measure, I retreat a step. When you’re a big guy, sometimes you intimidate without meaning to.
She still doesn’t seem to know what to make of me.
I don’t have the same skillset when it comes to charm that my brother has, but I do receive the occasional remark on my smile. Something about dimples.
Okay, if they say so.
I unleash the spread of the lips that’s earned the comment in the past. “I need to pay out.”
Her lashes fly high, rewarding my effort. “Oh.” She glances toward the cash register, then back, mischief making merry in her exceptionally blue eyes. “You know, lots of people just leave money on the table.”
A comedian, is she? I pull my mouth to the side as if considering the suggestion. “Nah, getting arrested isn’t on this Christmas’s wish list.”
“Yeah, what is on—” She shakes her head. “Never mind.”
The door flaps closed, but five seconds later, Everly backs through it lugging a large, taped-up box. I try not to enjoy the show too much, and then her cute backside collides with a chair, delivering me and spurring me into tardy action.
I spring into motion and sling the box onto my shoulder. “Where do you want it?”
She scowls, pressing her fists to the holly red apron at her hips. “I had that.”
“Yep, and now I do. Where does it go?”
