Page 5 of Spencer's Satisfaction
I laugh and shoo her off, too. We’ve got one old guy perched at the service counter but are otherwise empty. “I’ll be fine for the few minutes it takes you to take care of business,” I assure her, chuckling at how quickly she scoots away.
Naturally, my luck turns almost the second the door swings shut behind her.
A huge group enters through the front doors, raucous and taking up three booths at once as they sprawl out. I can only assume they’ve come from the club, seeing as a couple wear kitten and puppy ears (one even has a collar) and…does that woman have a pacifier attached to her shirt with some kind of ribbon?
I give myself a shake and remind myself not to judge, gathering up a whole stack of menus and greeting the newcomers with my usual warmth. I take their drink orders and scurry back and forth between the counter and the tables as I ferry trayfuls of glasses to them. Then I take their orders and hurry to get them entered, printed, and pinned up on Gerald’s line.
When the bell over the doors chimes again, I want to groan in frustration.
Where the hell is Jenny?
At least the most recent customers arrive as a single pair. It’s two men, both handsome enough. One is quite tall and lean, with a mop of dark hair and warm gray-blue eyes, and the other is shorter and more rounded with softer features, rusty reddish-brown hair, and matching scruff on his cheeks. They both nod and raise their hands in recognition of the other group, but head in the opposite direction in the diner, taking a booth down the other side.
Pulling out two menus, I hustle over to them and begin my usual spiel.
Gingerbread grins and doesn’t even bother to open his menu. “I’ll have a Coke and your double bacon cheeseburger with curly fries, please.”
His friend scoffs, but the sound is affectionate. “So, a heart attack on a plate, then?” There’s something familiar about this other man’s voice, but I’ve never seen him before in my life. He, too, leaves the menu shut and offers me a smile that showcases twin dimples on either side of his mouth. The effect is instantly disarming. “Decaf coffee, black, and a serve of your cherry pie a la mode, please.”
“What the hell kinda’ order is that?” Scruffy McGinger asks in disgust while I’m scribbling on my notepad.
“The kind where I already ate dinner before we headed out.”
“Leftover Chinese food shared with Bob-”
“Frank.”
“Whatever the hell you named that evil-ass furball, I don’t care. Leftover takeout eaten alone with your cat isn’t dinner.”
Tall, Dark and Mop-like rolls his eyes and casts me an apologetic grimace. “Sorry about him. He’s…an acquired taste.”
I’m thoroughly amused by their antics, I have to admit it. But not being able to pickwhythis guy sounds so familiar is driving me crazy. His voice is deeper than he appears it should be, but pleasant. He speaks as though he’s weighing his words, the pace and pattern of his speech almost melodic in how measured and smooth it is. I really like it. It sends pleasant tingles up my spine, alongside that curious familiarity.
“I don’t know,” I try to flirt a little, not knowing what is compelling me to do so. It’s not the sort of thing I’ve ever been interested in doing before. Certainly never with a customer. I feel awkward, but I still wink as I add, “I can’t help but agree that our burgers arewaybetter than sharing old takeout with a cat.”
The taller man gasps with faux indignation, clutching imaginary pearls. “Well I never,” he says in an impressive, scandalized southern drawl, and it’s like lightning strikes my brain. “That’s hurtful, that is.”
“S-sorry.” I stammer, unable to compute the fact that the man I’m talking to soundsjust likethe voice in my audiobook. Just like the narrator whose works I’ve been chewing through like a rottweiler in a tennis ball factory.
“Damn, Spence, you broke our server,” Ginger-features laughs, leaning across the laminate tabletop to smack at his friend. “Apologize, man. I want my burger.”
Spence, my brain echoes helpfully. Because the voice alone could be put down to lucky coincidence, but the fact that my favorite narrator’s name is also Spencer probably can’t. Can it?
“N-no,” I manage to blurt out, feeling the heat of embarrassment crawl over my cheeks, “I just…uh…sorry, are you…I mean, this is going to soundridiculous, but, um, are you Spencer Rhodes?”
His eyes go wide and his jaw slackens. “You got that out of three sentences?”
Holy shit.
Holy fucking shit.
He is.
HeisSpencer Rhodes.
My heart hammers in my chest and I’m pretty sure my blush covers my entire body at this point. “I’m a fan,” I mumble, casting my gaze to the floor.
“No shit,” Ginger Spice chuckles, “like that wasn’t obvious by the fact you picked his voice so quickly.”
