“Laura,” I say, nodding once.
Angie’s station is empty. Her purse is still hanging on the hook next to the mirror, though. She’s here.
“Hey, EJ!” Shannon says from her spot near the front window.
I wave at Shannon.
“Angie’s in the back room,” Laura says. “Go on back.”
I stride through the shop, avoiding the eyes of the few customers left in chairs.
When I walk into the back room, Angie’s singing softly to herself, slightly off-key. Her hips are swaying. She’s folding towels and capes.
“Hey,” I say softly.
Angie jumps and turns. “EJ! You scared me.”
“Sorry,” I smile at her. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. “It’s okay. Did you need something?”
“Funny you should ask.” I step a step closer. “I’m here to collect on your promise.”
“I didn’t promise,” Angie says, holding her hand up as if I’m going to step even closer and invade her personal space.
She hesitates. It’s barely noticeable, but I notice everything about her—the way she stands, the pop of her hand on her hip, the slight upturn of her eyebrows in the middle of her forehead. Her words might be saying no, but her face tells another story.
“Angie?”
“Hmm?” She picks up a towel off the pile and folds it midair, still facing me.
“I just want to take you to dinner.”
She glances down and back up at me. “I can’t, EJ.”
“You don’t eat dinner?” I ask, infusing some playfulness into my tone.
“I don’t always.”
“But you do sometimes.”
“Sometimes.”
“And you have to eat it alone?”
“I eat with my boys most nights. And Mom.”
“I have a thought,” I tell her, totally winging this. “There are three hundred and sixty-five nights a year. If you don’t eat half of them, that’s still around one hundred and eighty nights you eat something after work. And, let’s say you spend one hundred and seventy-nine of those with your boys. That leaves one open. I’m just asking for that one.”
She shakes her head, a soft smile on her face.
She places the towel she just folded on the stack. Then she steps toward me. I step back, making room for her to pass by. She smells like shampoo and something distinctly feminine.
“I’ve got to get going,” she says.
“I’ll walk you out,” I tell her.
Is this when I should back off?
