The lot’s halogen lights kicked up another notch, and she spied one of her perpetual lookie-loo customers strolling through the car lot. Any time she’d talked to him, he always seemed to have an appreciation for cars and trucks running through him, too. She gave a small wave. The man nodded in return as she pulled out of the dealership.
Five minutes later, she turned into Joanie’s Pizza, Pub and Pool parking lot. Evidently, she’d beat the Friday night rush and luckily found a spot under a parking light on the second row. Time for food, friends and hopefully a game of pool.
Doubtful any of her family would be there tonight. Her sister Marcy had texted a couple hours ago that she didn’t feel like their usual Friday get-together. And her mama, Sadie, and stepdad, Truman Dawson, were spending the weekend in Kansas City. They’d decided to celebrate their anniversary at one of those swanky downtown hotels. How many years had they been married? Enough to make them both happy, and that’s all that mattered.
Stepping into Joanie’s was like someone had suddenly lifted all the problems weighing on her shoulders. She felt the smile on her face increase with each person that shouted hello as she made her way to the small counter near the kitchen.
She snapped her fingers and made a detour to the chalkboard by the pool tables area, then printed her name at the bottom of the list of names already ahead of her. Worked for her. Gave her time to sit and chat with her best friend, Joanie Reynolds, as she came and went from the kitchen to the small counter.
“You’re just in time to taste my new recipe,” Joanie said as she slid a plate of fried ravioli appetizers in front of her. As the owner, her jobs ranged from paying the bills to coming up with new ideas for Friday night specials.
Betsy slipped onto one of the stools at the small counter. “So what’s new about this? I’ve had your fried ravioli lots of times.”
Her friend leaned forward and whispered as if this was a world-changing secret. “The ravioli are chicken instead of pork and beef. And you’ll notice there are two sauces. The regular marinara one and...”—she set a second small bowl next to the first—“… a special sauteed minced garlic with Italian seasoning in a delightful pool of melted butter.”
“Looks good to me.” Betsy took a chance on the chicken ravioli and smiled. Not all of Joanie’s concoctions turned out well, but this one had potential. “Hey, I need a light beer, wedge salad and a plate of fries to go with this.”
For the next hour, Joanie and she carried on a running conversation, in between customers and sharing the fries. Friday nights were always busy. Not much time for chitchat, but that didn’t matter. Joanie’s was making money, and Betsy was enjoying the noise of the customers. Sure beat sitting at home in front of a television. And once Papa C had texted that Earl and he had locked up and left Peyton’s, she felt a lot better.
Cheers from guys shooting a game at one of the pool tables greeted whoever had just walked in the front door. Betsy turned to say hello and made unintentional eye contact with the new arrival—Cain. Cain Connery. His blue-eyed nonchalance belied the intensity of his six feet of muscle and masculinity.
Breaking their visual connection, he glanced at the pool table chalkboard. “Could one of you guys put my name on the bottom of that list? I’ll be right over after I order a pizza.”
“Sure thing,” one of the guys said.
“Appreciate it.”
Seemingly always at ease in himself, he headed toward the small counter. Stopped to chat with people along the way, shook hands and laughed. Took extra time with some of the townsfolk, moved quick past others.
Knowing her body’s heated, heart-thumping reaction every time Cain got within speaking distance, she evaluated her options for avoidance. The sound of his voice, a cross between Sam Elliott and a finely crafted, ultra-smooth bourbon, depending on her mood, became more distinct as he neared the counter.
Quickly, she swallowed the French fry taking up space in her mouth and motioned to Joanie. “Hey, I’ve decided to head on home. Can I get a box for the rest of this?”
Joanie glanced at her, then Cain, then the counter. “Nope.”
“What do you mean nope?” Betsy leaned forward and rounded her eyes, then quickly gave a side-eye between Cain and Joanie. “I’m tired and I’d like to head home.”
Her friend smiled, arching her right eyebrow in a “gotcha” moment. “It’s about time one of us moves on with their life.”
“That goes for you, too,” Betsy whispered.
Joanie stared for a long moment at the tri-folded United States flag in the case above the entrance. Batting her eyes, she grabbed the bar towel and started cleaning the counter. “I’m not ready. That means it’s your turn tonight.”
Cain slid up on the stool at the end of the short counter. “You two look deep in conversation.”
“Just talking about life and weather and long past Friday nights,” Joanie said. “What can I get you?”
“One of your special Friday night pizzas and a beer. How about you, Betsy? You need another beer?”
“No. I’m…I’m just fine. I…uh, that is…” She shook her head and placed her hand on top of her drink.
And there it was—the quirk of his smile, his questioning glance, the furrow of his brow at her answer, and that smooth-as-metal voice. Add in the scent of his leather jacket and she was done for. She’d felt the blush on her neck as she stumbled over her words. But her emotions would never get the best of her. Any unfulfilled feeling she’d had for Cain in high school had long since been doused with years of life and distance.
Across the room, a groan split the air a second before cheers and hurrahs erupted. Evidently, someone had unexpectedly won. Or lost.
“That’s a wrap, guys,” one of the players shouted. “Hey, Betsy, your name is next on the chalkboard.”
Thank goodness she had a reason to leave the counter. “Okay, who’s up for a game?”
