Page 14 of Falling for the Wrong Guy

“Hmm, I was thinking an omelet with avocado and cheese. Wheat toast on the side.”

I found it hard to look at him, because when I did, I always managed to get pulled into that green gaze. Losing focus was the last thing I needed this morning. “Coffee?” I kept my eyes averted and on my notepad.

He didn’t answer until I looked at him. There was that caffeine flutter again. I really needed to slow down on the coffee.

“Yes, please. Black.”

I rushed away so quickly, I forgot to pick up his menu. I didn’t have time to go back for it. And there it was again. That pitter patter in my chest. I needed to switch to decaf.

“Linda, get the customer at table six a coffee. I’ve got his order. I’ll be back on the stove,” I called to her. I was glad to disappear into the kitchen. Stupidly, I hadn’t even considered that the man would be a customer. There weren’t many places to eat in town, and his boat didn’t look well enough equipped for a decent kitchen.

Somehow, the stove and griddle felt extra hot and the kitchen, too. I stopped to drink a glass of water and then set to work on the omelet. Almost everyone else had ordered pancakes, so the omelet order threw me off my game. I dropped the first egg on the floor.

I was just picking up my stride again when I heard Linda behind me. “He’s asking where his first server went. I explained to him that you were also the cook and the owner and that I’d be taking over his table.” She moved closer. “He sure is handsome … and big.”

I didn’t look up from the stove. “There are some more orders in the window, and don’t forget to hydrate. It’s one of those mornings.”

I waved the spatula in front of my face to produce some kind of air movement, something to cool the searing heat in the kitchen. I flipped the omelet and was just about to put in the toast when Linda cleared her throat loudly behind me. For someone who was responsible for the entire dining room, she certainly found plenty of time for visits to the kitchen.

“What is it now, Linda?”

“Officer Tuttle is at the counter.”

“Really? He must be on an early lunch break.”

Linda shook her head. “He wants to see you.”

It was my turn to grunt. “Tell him I’ll be right there.” I dropped bread in the toaster. Officer Tuttle, or Owen Tuttle, went to school with Ella. In fact, he had quite the crush on her and even made her homemade Valentine’s Day cards. He also took his job very seriously, and while there was usually little crime in town, he always looked busy and official, like today. It seemed he’d spent extra time polishing his badge and belt buckle this morning. They gleamed in the light.

He smiled and took off his hat as I walked out. “Sorry to bother you, Aria, but I was wondering if you knew anything about the owner of that old tugboat in the marina. A few of the boat owners thought they saw you talking to him.”

My eyes slid sideways to table six. Dex had picked up the menu and was hiding behind it like a spy behind a newspaper. Only since there were no holes in the paper, his green eyes kept peering up over the top of the menu. Our gazes clashed and held. His seemed to be saying, “Please don’t rat me out.”

“Might have run into him while I took Oscar a sandwich. Has he done something?”

Owen always had rosy cheeks, and that hadn’t changed. He smiled shyly. “Now you know I can’t talk about police business.” He shrugged and leaned closer to talk quietly. “Just looking to talk to him for now. His boat isn’t registered.”

“Ah, that is a problem to be sure. I’ll keep my eye out for him.”

Owen put on his hat. “Thanks, Aria. I’ll be back for lunch.”

“See you then.”

Officer Tuttle’s policing skills weren’t great. He left the café and never once looked around.

I hurried back to butter the toast. Linda glanced through the order window. “Is that for table six?” she asked enthusiastically.

“Yes, but I’m going to deliver it myself.”

Her lips pursed in a pout as she grabbed the plates out from under the heating lamp. I put the toast on the plate and carried the omelet out to the dining room. Dex lowered the menu. I didn’t give him time to thank me for not pointing him out to Tuttle.

“Eat your omelet and, as my grandmother used to say, ‘sling your hook.’”

He sat taller with a smile, an annoyingly great smile. “No way. My grandmother used to say the same thing whenever we were hanging out too much in her kitchen. She used to make the world’s best Irish stew.”

“I doubt it,” I said.

His smile shrank. “You doubt that I had a grandmother? Even we drifting troublemakers have grandparents.”

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