“Now look at each other,” Darla directs.
This isn’t over yet?
I turn my chin and meet a set of slate gray eyes. I prepare another awkwardI’m not panickingsmile.
But then George murmurs, “Engine failure was worth it just to have this over Shawn for the rest of his life.”
A laugh cracks out of me, and a second later Sally claps. “That was the one!”
Well, I guess me laughing is better than my hostage-situation smile.
I finish passing The Bunsen to the original Bunsen and step away, wiping my sweaty palms on my apron as I hurry off to check on my other customers.
The next time I circle back, Shawn looks fifty percent less devastated as he tries not to be obvious about how he’s staring at Darla while she aggressively fills the napkin holders.
George is slowly chewing his food, and I take the moment to thank him.
“That was nice of you.” I tilt my head toward the booth where the reporter-in-training was sitting when he arrived. “To agree to Riann’s interview. She’ll be gentle, I promise.”
Something twinkles in his eyes, and he wipes his mouth with a napkin.
“I don’t mind.”
Does he actually not mind, or is this an extension of his guilt?
“Do you need help with that?” Shawn asks Darla, distracting me from my thoughts as he continues to take his life in his own hands.
She glares at him. “You think I’m doing it wrong?”
“No. There’s just a lot of them.” He waves around the diner.
My friend narrows her eyes at Shawn in suspicion. Then she stalks behind the counter and comes out with a large container of salt. She plops the jug down in front of him. “You can fill the shakers.”
“Darla,” I sigh.
“He offered.”
“I did offer,” Shawn insists. Then my brother slides off his stool and strolls over to the farthest booth and proceeds to top off the salt.
“He’s not getting paid to do that,” I point out half-heartedly. It’snot like I’ve never thought about what it would be like if Shawn had to do some of my tedious diner work. Just to better understand my life.
Darla smirks. “It’s called delegating. Demonstrates I have good leadership skills.”
“And what skill set is he honing?” I wave toward my eager brother, who is eye level with the saltshaker, his tongue between his teeth as he concentrates on pouring it exactly right.
She shrugs. “Hand-eye coordination?”
George snorts, and when I throw an incredulous look his way, he drops his gaze to his plate.
“Don’t take forever with that, Newton,” Darla calls out as she goes back to her napkins. “You’ve got pepper next.”
“Yes, boss.”
I sigh in defeat, then realize George is staring at me again.
“What?”
“Have you thought about my offer?”
