Page 44 of The Fall Back Plan
When I find a lull about five minutes later, I stop at his table again. “Sorry. You were saying?”
“I wanted to see if—”
The entrance opens and a passel of women in business suits come in. Maybe six of them? It’s the banker crowd, and they’re already in high spirits, their laughter drowning out whatever Lucas is trying to say.
Mary Louise meets my eyes, hers brimming with amusement, and nods to let the ladies know they’ve passed the commonsense age check, which is “You clearly look over twenty-one, so I won’t card you.” Mary Louise doesn’t card unless someone looks young, but stopping everyone is silly if it’s obvious they’re the legal age to drink.
“I really am so sorry,” I tell him again. “Tina’s kid is sick, and I’m covering. Be right back.” I head to the bar to pluck up drink menus for the new arrivals.
It doesn’t get any better over the next twenty minutes, and Lucas seems to realize that there will be no time to chat. I’m hustling back and forth so hard that I don’t even have time to glance his way for a good bit, and when I finally do, it’s to see that he’s left and two new people, a middle-aged couple, have taken his place.
“When did Lucas leave?” I ask Mary Louise, skimming past her on a bar run.
“About ten minutes ago.”
On the way back with the couple’s menus, I ask, “Did he say what he needed?”
She shakes her head. “I’ve got theories.”
“Like?”
“He was acting odd. I think maybe he came by to ask you out.”
I fight the impulse to race out of the door and chase after him.
This is the dumbest possible impulse. Why would I do that? It’s not like I’d say yes. And maybe Mary Louise is wrong about what he wants. I start to ask her why she thinks this, but Ry needs me, and I’m nearly running for over two hours straight before the pace slows down enough that Precious can handle the tables on her own. By now, Daniel has started to get the hang of things, and he’s on the floor working two of the smaller tables too.
I finally have a spare minute to check in with my head of security, who is imagining things. “Mary Louise, Lucas didn’t tell you specifically why he was here?”
She shakes her head.
“Then why are you assuming he wanted to . . .” I can’t finish the sentence because the weird swoop I get in my stomach from even considering it makes me feel like I’m back in high school. No. Worse. Middle school.
“He was nervous, kind of,” she says. “Fidgeting. That’s not like him.”
“That’s not evidence.”
She gives me a faint smile. “Never took his eyes off you, either.”
Warmth blooms in my cheeks, and I hope she doesn’t notice. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
A faint shrug again. “Fine. My theory is wrong.”
I glance toward the door, imagining walking out of it to look for Lucas. But that’s stupid. He left two hours ago, for one.
And for two, if Mary Louise is right, and that’s what he was here for, the last thing I need to do is follow up on that. Not when the idea makes me way more nervous than Shane Hardin reaching behind him ever did.
When it’s slow enough for me to leave, I climb into my truck and drive the long way home. The way that won’t take me by the sheriff’s office or the turnoff to the Cole place.
I park in my garage and lock myself in the house.
Um, I mean, lock the door firmly behind me, then put myself to bed like a good girl who isn’t pretending that she isn’t wildly tempted to text the hot sheriff and see what he needs.
This much I do know: the last thing that man needs isme.
And vice freaking versa.
I hug my pillow. My muscles are screaming, I have blisters on both heels, and I smell like beer. Conclusion: waiting tables is skilled labor. In addition to the physical demands of being on your feet and constantly moving, it takes either a degree in clinical psychology or an innate talent with people to keep the good times rolling and the cash coming in.
