“Like a jar of fireflies,” Larkin adds.
“Like a jar of embarrassment,” I mutter, heading toward the DOT crew.
But the truth hums under my skin, bright as neon and twice as hard to ignore. No matter how tired I am or how heavy this burden is to keep Central afloat while Muriel recuperates, Sam leaning on the counter and telling me I’m doing just fine quiets the noise a little. His faith in me is grounding.
I stack plates, refill cream, dodge Pap’s elbow, and point Floyd toward the tip jar when he starts waxing philosophical about the barter system. The door opens and closes. People come and go. Life does its thumping, happy thing.
And Sam’s invitation sits in my chestlike a warm stone.
I’m bussing a table near the door when Larkin and Laken are walking out, but I don’t escape some last-minute advice.
“So,” Larkin says, nudging me with her shoulder. “Chesty’s tonight?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Your mouth said maybe,” Laken says, “but your face said yes.”
“My face says a lot when it’s being harassed by twins.”
“Encouraged,” Larkin corrects. “We’re encouraging.”
“Like personal trainers,” Laken adds. “But for romance.”
“Fantastic,” I say. “Do I get a cool-down stretch after?”
“Sure,” Larkin says. “It’s called kissing.”
“Out,” I tell them, pointing with my towel. “Before I make you bus tables.”
They scamper away, laughing victoriously.
CHAPTER 5
Sam
Wednesday nights atChesty’s run slow and lazy. There’s no pool or dart leagues tonight and most everyone clears out after ten. In fact, there are many nights it’s just me and the jukebox turned on low until we close.
Tonight, no one’s fed a quarter into the music maker yet so there’s only a low buzz of chatter among a grand total of three customers sitting down at the opposite end of the bar from Pap. He’s almost done with his beer and I keep tabs on it, but his attention is pinned to a hockey game on TV as he follows his beloved Pittsburgh Titans. I’m using the quiet time to wash and dry empty mugs, giving me a head start on the evening cleanup I’ll finish after I shoo out the last customer.
The door opens and because I’ve been on alert, my head snaps that way, and yeah, in walks trouble wrapped in tired, yet still breathtakingly beautiful.
Penny sports the same outfit she wore this morningat Central Café. The flour’s gone from her cheek, the bun at the back of her head appears intentional again, and there’s a slick of gloss on sinful lips. She’s got the loose, floaty gait of someone who most certainly doesn’t look like she’s been on her feet all day running a restaurant.
Her eyes catch mine and she smiles before dropping down beside Pap on a stool. She spares me a quick glance, then nudges Pap with her shoulder. “You buying the first round or what?”
His attention abandons the game, and probably only because the Titans are winning. He nods at me and lifts a finger. “Give the girl a cold one, Sam-Pete. She earned it today.”
I fish a beer out of the cooler, twist the cap, and expertly toss it behind my back to make a clean entry into the garbage can. I place the bottle before her. “Rough day?”
“Define rough,” she says, and takes a swallow and sighs as she savors the fizz, then groans in delight. “If running a diner is a circus, I’m the clown who set herself on fire.”
Pap’s mouth twitches. “Was it hopping all day?”
“Packed,” she says, exhaling the way people do when they set down a heavy box. “Apparently the entire county missed bacon cooked by someone else. My step count is illegal.”
“Happy problem,” I tell her.
“Happy and loud,” she agrees. She swivels halfway toward Pap, her arm brushing the bar. “I didn’t get to talk to you much this morning.”
