“Sure.” He glances out the window, studying the constant flow of traffic. “And a water.”
“Lemon?” I ask as I write aWnext to my other chicken scratch.
“Trying to say something?”
I blink.
“You know … about being sour. You know what? Never mind. It was supposed to be a joke.”
I’m not sure what to say, so naturally my mouth opens, and nonsense comes out. “Oh, okay. I’m laughing on the inside.”
He leans against the leather seat and lets his lips curve into a half smile as a chuckle rolls out, low and easy. “Careful, it just may burst out of ya one of these days.”
“Uh-huh,” I deadpan. “I’ll go put this in right away.”
As I turn away, I can feel his eyes on me, and for a second, there’s something in me that wants to laugh that awkward conversation away. I weave my way to the kitchen, slowly tearing the order slip. My heart races, a strange mix of nerves and exasperation, and I slap the ticket down on the counter for our cook, who drags it over to his side.
My efforts to stay out of the dining area ultimately fail when Mitch gives me the stink eye for hovering in the kitchen, and I drag my feet to refill beverages and take more orders. I avoid Noah but can’t help checking every so often to see what he’s doing while he waits for his food. He rotates between staring out the window, switching the napkin holder with the salt and pepper shakers, and drumming the pads of his fingers on the table to a beat. It must be stuck in his head since he repeats the same sequence of taps.
A regular customer, Old Man John, yanks open the door, cane supporting the brunt of his weight, and I rush to help him before he struggles to keep it ajar.
“How are you doing today?” I ask him as I lazily lean against the glass door to keep it wide enough for him to wobble in.
“Just fine, young lady. I’ve got a hankering for a roast beef sandwich.” He offers me his arm, and I grin before accepting and threading my arm under his.
I don’t know many people in town. In fact, I do my bestnotto get to know people. Frankly, I’d rather watch grass grow. Old Man John is the only person in this town I will miss when I leave.
I point to an empty barstool on the end of the counter, and he nods but stops short when he notices Noah in a booth. He pivots, and for an old guy, the man keeps me in tow with ease.
“Noah. Didn’t know you’d be here,” Old Man John says, his shaky hand lifting his cane to flick it toward the unoccupied side of the table.
Noah smiles up at him before observing my arm tangled with his.
“John.” Noah nods. “Good to see you out and about. That peach pie you left my mom the other week has left a hole in my heart I simply cannot fill. Came here looking for something to fill the void.”
John chuckles and my brows crease. They’re familiar with each other. Which makes sense, I suppose. With this town being the tourist trap it is, the locals are tight-knit and the vibes among them very “small-town.”
“Why don’t you join me?” Noah asks.
“Mighty kind, Noah. Mighty kind.”
I help Old Man John into the booth and take his order to avoid Noah’s scrutiny. It takes me a few minutes to tend to some other people, and I hurry back with Old Man John’s black coffee. Both men are deep in conversation, so I slide the mug onto the table and turn around to hustle into the kitchen.
“She’s a sweetheart,” Old Man John tries to whisper. Except it’s nowhere near a whisper and the words reach my ears all the same.
It could be vanity or curiosity, damn if I know, but I slow my pace waiting for Noah’s response. There’s a brief grunt and words too low for me to understand.
I roll my eyes. Whatever.
When Noah’s turkey club is ready, I inwardly groan and rush to pick it up before trudging, reluctantly, to the table.
“Turkey club and fries,” I say. “Can I get you anything else?”
“Just ketchup.”
I tip my head toward the ketchup flanking the napkin holder, and he offers me a weary smile.
“Thanks.”
