I push off the desk and walk away. Well, now there’s that.
Chapter Eighteen
Delaney
Harrison parks his car on the brick-paved road in front of a quaint café with a canvas awning and a few wrought iron tables set up outside. It’s right across from the town square—a lovely plot of green space scattered with enormous sycamore trees, their peeling bark revealing the white surface underneath and their crowns providing shade in the late June heat.
I breathe a sigh of relief that the drive was nowhere near as awkward as I was afraid it was going to be. Instead, Harrison spent the entire fifteen minutes we were in the vehicle explaining that we were dropping off a variance request, what it is, and what the process entails—in painstaking detail.
My lap vibrates, and I realize it’s my phone buzzing from inside my purse. I reach inside and pull out the phone, swiping to wake it up. I don’t really have friends—I haven’t had time in these last few years. So, anytime the phone rings or a text message comes through, I worry it will be about Mom. It’s not this time. It’s a text.
Phyllis
Hi, Delaney. Have you ever bartended?
Uh, no. Why?
Phyllis
Feel like trying? Felicity is sick and won’t be able to bartend on Saturday. You feel like giving it a shot instead of washing dishes?
I hesitate since I’ve never bartended before and don’t want to mess it up.
Phyllis
It pays five dollars more an hour…
Sure, I’ll give it a try.
I could use the extra money.
Phyllis
Great, be there fifteen minutes early so Garrett can show you the ropes.
I respond with a thumbs-up emoji, then jump when my car door opens. I turn to find Harrison there, holding it ajar with one hand while extending the other toward me.
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to… I was answering a text and got distracted. You didn’t have to open my door. I wasn’t expecting you to do it.”
I make the mistake of glancing at Harrison, and his jaw is tight, his eyes smoldering.
“Don’t be absurd. When I drive you somewhere, I’ll be opening your door.”
I ignore his extended hand and rise from the car, straighten my skirt—one that’s just short enough I wouldn’t have worn it had I known I’d be sitting in a car with Harrison—and step aside.
Harrison says nothing else, closes the door, and guides me to the café entrance. As soon as we enter, the delicious aroma of cooked onions and a tantalizing combination of spices hits my nostrils.
I’m pretty sure a soft moan escapes me. It’s confirmed when Harrison chuckles. The sound warms me inside. I like hearing him make happy sounds instead of the grumpy grunts I’ve been hearing from him at the office. It reminds me of who he was that night.
“It’s their French onion soup. It’s the absolute best.”
“It smells fabulous.”
There’s a cute sign with chalk writing that tells us to seat ourselves, and I follow Harrison to a table big enough for six people. I lift an eyebrow at him.
“Are you expecting company, or are you planning on ordering so much that we’ll need the space?”
A smile—just a hint of one, but it still counts—forms around his mouth. He places a few files and a legal pad, which I didn’t realize he was carrying, on the table.
