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I take the lunch, the scent of chicken and ranch hitting me square in the nostrils. “Well, no, but I could have,” I state, opening the lid and finding my favorite chicken BLT sandwich. Chopped crispy chicken, bacon, tomato, and lettuce, mixed with ranch dressing and stuffed in a fresh hoagie roll. Add in fresh fruit, and it’s positively delicious.
TD snorts as he takes a seat on the ground in front of me and opens the second container, revealing the same lunch. “I’ve known you a lot of years, El. You always put everyone before yourself, which is why I assumed you haven’t eaten. When you do finally get a little time to yourself, you usually get lost in it. Hence, the clock past one and you still haven’t had lunch.”
My eyes narrow a bit, annoyed with how well he knows me. “Don’t say hence. You sound like Mrs. Eshelman from eighth grade English class.”
He chuckles, and I hate how the sound goes straight to the apex of my legs. I should not get turned on listening to my friend laugh. “I forgot about her. Wasn’t she a hundred and ten when she taught us?”
“She was in her fifties, silly,” I comment, taking my first bite of my sandwich. The flavors explode on my tongue, and I have to rein in my groan.
“She cracked that ruler against the chalkboard like she’d been teaching since the fifties,” he grumbles between bites.
“We should move over to the picnic area so you have a better place to sit,” I suggest, closing the lid on my lunch container and preparing to stand.
“I’m fine, El. Sit. Eat.”
“So bossy,” I retort, remaining in my seat and reopening my container of food.
“You have no idea,” he mutters, his focus on his own lunch.
A shiver sweeps through me at his words, as if they hold some sort of hidden meaning. I stare at my friend, casually sitting on the grass in front of me, and try to ignore how gorgeous he looks in his police uniform. The dark blue really makes his eyes look incredibly deep and rich, and I won’t get into the way the pants hug his thighs and rear end. Even the black shoes seem to catch my attention.
Of course, all it does now is remind me of the kiss from Friday night. I’ve spent the last few days trying to forget it happened, but after only a few minutes in his presence, that kiss comes barreling back to the forefront of my mind, replaying every swipe of his lips and stroke of his tongue. I recall exactly how hot and bothered I was after he left, and exactly what I had to do to relieve the tingle between my legs his kiss evoked.
I feel my face start to get warm, and I pray he doesn’t notice.
Clearing my throat, I finally ask, “Busy day?”
He shrugs and pops a grape into his mouth. “Not terrible. A few traffic stops early on, and Jeb had another gas-and-dash,” he says shaking his head. “That man loses more money every month to gas-and-dash customers, I’m not sure how he can afford to stay in business.”
“He told me not too long ago he’d never put in new pumps. If it ever got to that point, he’d sell or close it down,” I reply before taking a bite of watermelon.
“Yep. I tell him every time I file a report, he’s better off paying the money to put in the pumps. I know the cost is extensive in the beginning, but he does enough business with his location close to Bluff Preserves, he’d recoup the cost quickly.”
“I get that, but Jeb grew up in a different time. He doesn’t want anything to do with credit cards. When he comes to the diner, he always pays in cash.”
TD sighs as he extends his legs out in front of him, his big feet sliding along the side of my chair. “I know that, really. I just hate when assholes take advantage of a good guy like him. I know plenty of times the gas-and-dash customers are accidental. When I get a hold of them after running their plates, you can tell it wasn’t intentional. Those patrons are instantly embarrassed and apologize profusely, and most of the time, they do put a check in the mail to cover their gas. But there are still several who make it so you can’t track them down to get payment or don’t send it in. Jeb refuses to prosecute those assholes, and that never sits right with me.”
“But it’s his decision, right?”
He nods before taking another big bite of the sandwich. “These are really good. I can see why they’re your favorite.”
I offer him a small grin. “Would you believe it if I told you it was an accident we discovered this sandwich?”
“This is one delicious accident,” he replies, his eyes burning into mine and causing my heartbeat to spike.
I look away quickly, returning my focus on what’s left of my food. “We were playing around with a salad one afternoon, and when it didn’t turn out the way Susie wanted because she said it had too much ranch dressing, she threw all the ingredients into a bowl and set it aside. It looked too good to waste, so I grabbed a fork and prepared to eat it, but the chicken was stripped too big. I cut it all into small pieces and ended up chopping the other ingredients the same way. Susie watched as I stirred it together once more, and suddenly, she was grabbing a hoagie roll and stuffing it. The result was so good, I suggested Fran add it to the specials board one day a week to see what the customers thought. When it took off and people were asking for it on days it wasn’t a special, Fran put it on the regular menu. The rest is history,” I state with a proud smile, recalling how excited Fran was to tell me she was adding it to the daily offering. It’s not just my favorite sandwich, but a popular choice for the regulars.
TD is grinning from ear to ear. “It makes me happy to see you smile, knowing how much you love your job.”
I shrug, shying away from the compliment turned my way. “I’m just a waitress.”
He points a big, meaty finger at me and says, “Stop it. You’re way more than just a waitress. You’re an incredible, loyal, and dedicated employee and friend, the manager, and the customers love you. The regulars who know you always want to sit in your section every time they go. Everyone sings your praises, El, everyone, so don’t for one second think you’re just anything. You’re so much more than that.”
There’s a fierceness in his eyes that steals my breath and makes it hard to think. I’ve always been fine with my career choice, even though I’ve secretly wondered if Brody was okay with having a mom who is a server. He’s never complained about the fact I work at the diner, while some of his friend’s moms have college degrees and nine-to-five careers.
“Stop it, El.”
“What?” I ask, looking up.
