Angel starts to hurry off, but I grab her hand. “Sorry,” I tell her. “It’s been a long couple of days. That’s all.”
It hasn’t been. Not really. But I can’t exactly tell her the real reason I’m all twisted up inside.
Angel’s expression softens. “Of course. Not sleeping in your own bed, and all the driving…” Her pager buzzes again, and she makes a frustrated sound. “I have to go.”
“Maybe I’ll have something here,” I blurt. “Some of that dill pickle soup. And when things slow down, we can talk about this weekend.”
“Are you sure? Because if you’re tired from traveling?—”
I give her hand a quick squeeze. “I’m sure. I’m looking forward to it.”
I’m just finishingthe last of my soup when the hairs on my arms stand on end.
There’s no reason for it.
But my gut isn’t often wrong. So when it sounds an alert, I listen.
Flipping my phone over, I spin on my stool so I can survey the room.
The crowd has thinned out a little in the half hour or so I’ve been here, but two-thirds of the tables are still full. The few empty tables are waiting to be cleared, and as I’m watching, Maria comes rushing out from the kitchen with a plastic bus bin and starts cleaning one of them off.
From behind the swinging metal doors, the faint sound of Jimi Hendrix filters through. I wouldn’t have put Frank, the head chef slash owner, as a Hendrix fan—for some reason I had him pegged as country or folk.
Past the glass door that leads outside, a light snow spins in the wind. According to the weather forecast, it’s not supposed to stick, but I find myself hoping it does so Haley’s mountain can get a bit bigger.
Then, as my gaze continues traveling around the dining room, I spot Angel, standing beside one of the six-tops, a drink tray tucked beneath her arm. I’ve been trying not to look for her too much, instead stealing quick glances in between watching videos on my phone. But it’s been hard. Whenever I hear her lilting laugh or catch a whiff of something sweet, my body springs to attention. It’s almost like she’s a magnet and I’m the complement being drawn irresistibly in.
As I watch Angel at the table, I quickly catalog everything. There’s her smile, drooping slightly, but still hanging on. More hair has escaped from her cute little ponytail so it frames her face like a halo. The back of her T-shirt’s come untucked, likely from lifting all those heavy trays that I had to fight not to offer to carry myself.
Yes, I know it’s her job. But she’s so small, and those trays were obviously heavy. It would have been nothing for me to carry them for her.
It wouldhave been weird, though. And bordering on—no, itwouldhave been—inappropriate. Instead, I just sat here at the bar with my bowl of surprisingly good dill pickle soup, frustrated and guilty and annoyed at myself for feeling that way.
While I’m watching and trying to figure out where this sudden sense of alarm came from, Phil—of the DUIs—says something, and the rest of the men at the table burst into laughter.
Angel blushes. Then she moves the tray so it’s covering her chest. Her shoulders draw up and her chin lifts.
My muscles tense.
He’s making her uncomfortable. And I don’t like it.
I’ve been half-waiting for them to pull some kind of shit since I saw them, especially given how much beer they’ve had. In fact, Jeff told Angel not five minutes ago that they were cut off, and if they argued about ordering more drinks to have Frank go talk to them.
Is Phil giving her a hard time about it? Is Angel trying to take care of it herself instead of asking Frank for backup?
Just as I’m about to slide off my stool and head over, I stop myself.
Don’t interfere. This is Angel’s job. She doesn’t need your help to deal with her customers.
But, shit. I have a bad feeling about this.
Phil gestures for Angel to come closer, and she shakes her head. He scowls. Then he says something that turns her face from pink to fuchsia.
No longer smiling, she reaches into her apron and slaps a slip of paper on the table—their check, I’m guessing—in a clear invitation to leave.
Good. Get out of here. And don’t come back.
But instead of accepting the bill, Phil crumples it and tosses it aside. Then he taps his empty beer glass and angles his head at the bar.
