I do. It means we can kiss the Next Gen Cup goodbye. We’ve lost too many as it is. We need multiple wins in a row to even qualify for the tournament.
“What does Fran have to do with any of that? You’re proving my point that I need to train, not seek out this stranger.”
Zev lowers his brows, his gaze boring into me as if his next words should be obvious. “Lucky. Charm.”
“She isn’t a charm. She’s a she. A person. One I don’t even know. One whose information I don’t have access to.” I lower my voice—but the thought comes out aloud. “One who may need professional help.”
“You need information? Her friend is literally down the hall.”
“So, you missed that woman ready to end me if I even think about speaking to Fran again?”
“That isn’t what she said.”
“Might as well have been.”
“So dramatic.” Zev’s blue eyes roll to the ceiling.
“So superstitious,” I bite back. “You guys believe the most absurd bull?—”
“Except,” Zev says, throwing an arm around my shoulders, “you believe it too. We’re all superstitious. It’s in our blood. And usually for a good reason.”
Nine
“Frances!”Glen hollers past the cook station and out into the open café for all to hear. Sure, it’s just Mr. Crabtree at the counter and a couple sitting at one of the ten booths in this place, but my cheeks still flame with the use of my full first name.
“It’s just Fran, Glen,” I tell him for the fifteenth time this week. I point to my name tag. The one Glen had etched with Frances despite me telling him multiple times that I go by Fran. The one I strategically stuck a bright pink heart over the last three letters of my name.
“Your order’s been up for sixty seconds. Where’s your head?” I am convinced that Glen is not a happy man. He probably needs a date with some age-appropriate gal who would go the extra mile to plan something special. Maybe then Glen, whose real name is probably something likeGlendon, would be less cranky.
My brows cinch. It’s not like we’re busy tonight. We aren’t on most Tuesday nights. For whatever reason, no one wants pancakes for dinner on Tuesdays. Maybe it’s thewhole Taco Tuesday craze—either way, waiting sixty seconds really won’t hurt anyone.
While my tips suck on Tuesday nights, my homework thrives.
Glen stays behind the open window of the kitchen, cooking and cleaning, while I man the front. I’m normally quick with my customers and my cleaning—and then, I study. It makes for a productive Tuesday.
But tonight—I’m distracted. Never did I ever think I’d meet myGrease 2kissing friend again. And then, there he was, like an extra-hunky, sunny surprise, right in Rosalie’s classroom.
I grab the stack of fluffy buttermilk pancakes with four links of sausage, two extra that I won’t be charging him for because I like Lester Crabtree, and set the meal in front of my counter customer.
My eyes bounce to the gold band on Lester’s left hand. He’s a regular, and we’re friendly, but I’ve never pried. Apparently, I’m feeling brave tonight. It’s got to be due to the success of a remake I didn’t even plan out.
I pinch my lips, then refill his coffee cup. “How’s your wife doing?”
Lester’s eyes widen, and he blinks as if I’ve asked him if the aliens in his backyard are enjoying their visit. He says nothing—just continues looking at me like I’m about to be beamed up by Scotty.
“Mr. Crabtree, are you all right?”
He coughs, his eyes still bugged.
I reach over the counter and pat him, but I can’t reach his back from this angle, so I’m just patting the man’s upper arm and watching him choke. So not helpful.
“Are you— Do you— Should I—” I’m just starting tomove, to leap over this counter and save Lester, when he clears his throat.
Lester takes a breath and sets a hand on his chest. “I’m fine, dear. Just fine. Last I checked, my wife was still very much dead. I thought you’d raised her from the grave for a second.”
“Oh.” I swallow, my eyes bouncing back to his left hand. “No. Of course not. I just saw your ring. And—” I gulp again. “I thought I’d make conversation.”
He nods once, his coughing spurt over. His gaze returns to his pancakes. “She always said she’d haunt me over breakfast.”
