“That depends,” I said. “Are you going to report me to the emotional seating authorities?”
“Not if you keep a low profile.”
My laugh came out before I could stop it.
The irony was so precise it felt personal.
She sat across from me, bare feet disappearing into the sand beneath the table, and placed the second coffee beside her untouched.
“You don’t look like a repeat offender,” she said.
“I’m new in town.”
“That explains it. Tourists never know which tables are haunted.”
“This one is haunted?”
“By me before my first dive of the day. Very dangerous spirit. Needs caffeine. Sometimes a bagel.”
She studied my plate with the professional concern of a doctor reviewing an alarming scan.
“You got the egg sandwich.”
“I did.”
“Risky.”
“It was listed under breakfast.”
“That’s how they get you. Seems safe until the yolk betrays you.”
“The yolk betrays you?”
“Blue shirt. Yellow yolk. High visibility crime scene.”
I looked down at my shirt.
“It’s pale blue.”
“Even worse. Now there’s nowhere for the shame to hide.”
The laugh escaped louder this time, sudden and real enough that I felt it in my chest.
Her gaze flicked briefly to my mouth.
Not recognition.
Not admiration.
Just interest.
It had been a long time since someone had looked at me without immediately trying to place me in relation to Savannah Brooks.
Fan. Critic. Journalist. Employee. Industry acquaintance. Person who had once heard one song and felt the need to explain country music to me.
This woman looked amused.
That was all.
