“No rush.” Another devastating Ulysses’s grin. “We’ve got all night.”
As soon as Debra was gone, I muttered, “Speak for yourself. I’m liable to fall asleep in the plate of nachos.”
He winced. “Sorry. I should’ve waited.”
I waved him off. “I’m assuming you had your reasons for wanting to come here tonight.”
“Uh, yeah. I just—“ He cut himself off as he stared at the front door and the new arrival.
Fuck. My. Life.
Marlon.
He caught my gaze, let that gaze travel to Ulysses, and then settled his attention back on me. He nodded before heading for a booth at the back. Near the kitchen.
“He come here often?” Ulysses gingerly handled a chicken wing.
I shrugged.
He bit into the wing and sucked in air.
I rolled my eyes. “She warned you those things were hot.”
“No shit.” He swallowed, then blew on the other half. “I was hungry.”
“So am I…but I’ll wait until it’s not going to burn me.” I sipped my drink.
“You’re adorable.” He sucked the rest of the chicken off the bone and tossed said bone on the spare plate. Then he picked up the next one.
“Hey, leave some for me.” I snagged one. “And what do you mean byadorable? I can’t tell if that’s a compliment, an insult, or something in between.”
“Compliment.” He devoured another wing.
I blew on mine. Despite fighting fires, I wasn’t a fan of heat. Well, too hot, anyway. “I’m never quite sure where I stand with you.” I bit into the wing.
“I’m not certain what you mean.” He shrugged. “I try to play it straight—”
“You’re anything but straight—and I’m not talking about your sexuality.” I chuckled.
“Nachos with extra guac and extra sour cream.” Debra put the heaping, steaming plate on the table. “Can I get you anything else?”
“No. This is fantastic. These wings sure are hot.” I put the bones on the spare plate.
“Cook does a good job.”
“How late are you open today?” Ulysses held her gaze.
“Until ten. Eleven on Fridays and Saturdays.”
“So not super late?”
She shook her head. “Fifties is open all the time. The two bars in town close later. We’re mostly here for the lunch and dinner crowd.” She glanced around. “Well, crowd is relative. Most nights you can just walk in and grab a seat.”
“Tough economy to run a business in.”
A moment passed—whether because she had to think about her answer or whether because she thought he was asking strange questions—I couldn’t be certain. “We offer good grub at a good price. We’re not as fancy as some places.”
I was going to assume she meant Stavros’s Greek or the fine dining Italian place whose name I could never remember.
