There were no peanut shells, but a nicely laid out bar and dining area with booths, good lighting, a scent of grilled fish, and music that didn’t offend her ears. She was inexplicably glad it wasn’t some upscale white tablecloth restaurant because that would feel like an awkward first date.
“Brick Collins!” The hostess greeted them, a woman in her fifties with red lipstick that few could carry off and an enviable wave in her dark hair. “Is this the lady you’ve been talking about?”
Maggie’s eyebrow climbed half an inch.
“It is,” he said without a molecule of shame or embarrassment. “Magnolia Lawson. Maggie to her friends. Mags to her lovers.”
Her jaw dropped, but the woman came around the hostess stand with two hands out for her.
“Maggie. I’m Gail Pickering, owner of this fine establishment. We are so happy to meet you. And you’regorgeous!” She looked up at Brick. “You weren’t kidding! So far out of your league you should be drowning and screaming for air.”
He shrugged, apparently unaffected by this breach of confidence. “I bribed her to come so I could win the bet with Picks. Is he cooking?”
“Like the madman he is,” Gail said, still holding Maggie’s hands like she’d never let go. “He hoped you’d come with Brick tonight, Maggie. My husband catches the fish, brings them in, and cooks every last one. It’s simple food, but you’ll love it. Drinks are free for you tonight. Wild Turkey, Brick?”
“Oh, sure, Mags loves the stuff. Maybe bring her a chaser of wine, since she’s so fancy tonight.”
Gail gave a bold wink. “Go on with you, Brick. Your booth is always ready. Mags, you just relax and eat until you can’t move no more.”
Maggie’s mind whirred as they walked across the planked floor toward a booth with a lovely view of…the back parking lot.
“They’re good friends,” he said, gesturing for her to slide into the booth. “Can I sit next to you, or do you prefer across?”
She looked up at him. “Take a wild guess.”
“Excellent.” He started to slide in next to her, then he laughed. “Just playin’ with you, Mags. I’d rather sit across and stare into those pretty eyes.”
She didn’t answer, looking around for a napkin to unfold on her lap, but didn’t see one. He sat down, propped his elbows on the table—shocker—and looked right at her. “When’s the last time you went out on a date, Mags?”
She inched back and pulled Jo’s quote. “I believe it was when the Beatles came to America.”
He gave a soft hoot. “Okay, well, times have changed.”
“I haven’t.”
Grinning, he put his hand out, palm up. “Put it there, Mama.”
Did he just call her?—
“C’mon. Hand in mine, right now.”
“Why?”
“Why not?” he demanded with a laugh. “’Cause I’m buyin’ dinner. Give me your hand, Magnolia.”
Slowly, she lifted her hand and placed it in his much bigger, more callused one.
“Sweet lady,” he said slowly. “You can relax, okay? I ain’t gonna bite, hurt, or frighten you. I’m the most honest and trustworthy man you’ll ever meet. And you are too uptight for your own good.”
“You should have seen me before,” she said under her breath, aware of her heart rate going up with each word of his speech.
“Before what?”
She didn’t even have to think. “Before Jo Ellen.”
He considered that and smiled as a server—who knew him by name—brought a tray full of drinks that included shots, wine, and, thank the Lord, water.
“Picks is making you a special,” the young woman said as she put the drinks out. “No need to order. Just enjoy the night.”
