“I’ve heard rumors,” Rhys replied. “But you wouldn’t catch me dead in one.”
“Yet, here you are.”
“Dev pays extremely well for these… cultural sacrifices.”
Emily appeared beside the table, notepad in hand, still scribbling from her last order. “What can I get you this morning?”
“Whatever won’t land us in the emergency department,” Rhys said, still scrubbing.
That got her attention. Her head lifted sharply, and when her eyes met his her pretty pink lips curved into a smile. “I thought we were doing lunch?” Her gaze shifted to Rhys, and her expression dimmed. “You’re the do— um… the guy from last night.”
“Indeed,” he said, flashing a brilliant white smile that had charmed half the subs at Devil’s Pointe. “Your attention was diverted by Yarborough’s antics. Understandably so. But we weren’t formally introduced. Dr. Rhys Langston.”
“Doctor?”
“Psychologist,” he clarified. He caught her hand and brought it to his lips. “You may call me Rhys away from the club.”
You can call him a hearse because he’ll need one if he doesn’t stop flirting,” Alec cut in, only half kidding.
He chuckled, releasing her with exaggerated reluctance.
“What’s happening?” Emily asked, brow furrowing.
“It’s complicated,” he said simply. “We’ll explain once you’re off and have time to sit.”
She glanced at the wall clock above the counter. “I’ve got fifteen minutes left, maybe twenty with cash-out.”
“No problem. Coffee in the meantime?”
“I’ll get it now,” she said, nodding.
Rhys propped the laminated menu upright behind the condiments. “Since I’ve no hope for a decent cup of tea, and I detest the dishwater you Yanks swill, fresh orange will suffice, luv. I’ll also take bangers and drop scones with clotted cream. I’m suddenly famished.”
Emily gazed blankly at him then looked to Alec for a translation.
“He’ll take pancakes topped with whipped cream and a side of sausage links.”
“Ah,” she sighed, enlightenment dawning.
“Isn’t that what I said?” Rhys asked, looking mildly offended.
***
Emily went through the motions of winding down her shift, though her gaze kept sliding toward booth 12A and the two unfairly handsome menwaiting for her. Judging by the whispering behind the counter, she wasn’t the only one who’d noticed. Even sixty-three-year-old Margaret had perked up.
“I heard him order,” Nicole gushed. “That accent? I felt it in my ovaries. If you tell me he’s single, I’ll melt right into this sticky floor.”
“As if any of us has a shot,” Ellen scoffed. “Look at her”—she pointed a spatula at Emily—“then look at them.” They didn’t need to turn toward the last booth on the right—they were already staring. “Gorgeous attracts gorgeous. Not frumpy, forty-something waitresses in support hose with bad knees.”
Some days, Ellen was a walking morale hazard worse than any Debby Downer.
Nicole ignored her. “He’s a special friend of yours, isn’t he?” she stage-whispered to Emily, brows waggling. “Please say yes. I need to live vicariously through someone.”
“The gorgeous, blue-eyed, All-American boy-next-door is Alec, a childhood friend,” Emily said, trying not to smile and failing. “The one giving off James Bond energy is Rhys.”
Nicole and Margaret sighed, instantly reverting to giddy adolescents. Ellen snorted again, the human equivalent of a cranky goose.
“Emily, order up,” the cook called.
