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“Come on, Shark,” I say, taking him by the leash. He seems sad to go, and I can understand the feeling. I could probably stay all afternoon and flirt with Brianna.
On the other side of the patio Brianna is feverishly writing down orders in her notepad, and she looks up and finds me leaving. I wave to her, and she waves back. Maybe she’s disappointed as well that I’m leaving? I could only hope.
I walk past the blonde hostess, and she’s as perky as the first time.
“Goodbye, Tate,” she says with a grin.
“See ya,” I say, walking toward my truck.
So, the hostess knows my name. Brianna must’ve told her. I’m trying to figure out the meaning of that. Girls like to talk to one another, so maybe Brianna was gossiping with her or something? Or maybe she told me all about the tip I left the last time.
I shake it off and decide not to analyze it. I’m not good at analyzing women anyway. At least, not anymore. I used to try to understand them, but the one woman I spent the most time trying to understand was the one that ripped my heart out of my chest. As the years passed, I’ve slowly recovered, but I spent a lot of time trying to understand my ex, Eden.
When the woman I loved, the one I choose to spend the rest of my life with decided to sleep with my best friend, that’s when I stopped trying to understand women. Actually, she’s the reason I gave up everything, especially my former life.
4
Brianna
“He came to the café again,” I say to Callie while placing my grocery items on the conveyor belt.
“What?” she asks, her eyes widening. “Really?”
“Yeah, that Tate guy. He came back to the café,” I repeat, thinking maybe she didn’t understand the first time. “And he paid with a hundred dollar bill, leaving me a giant tip, again.”
There’s a pause.
“Did you get his number?” Callie asks, ringing up my items without looking at them. She’s been working at the supermarket since she was sixteen and can do this job in her sleep.
“No. I’m not going to ask for his number, Callie. I’m not desperate, and it never came up.”
“I’m never speaking to you again,” she says with a laugh.
“Callie, you’ve had to have seen him before. This is the only place where he can buy food.”
“Describe him to me,” she says, taking her time checking me out so we can continue this conversation regardless of the line forming behind me. I look over my shoulder to see how many people are waiting and the woman directly behind gives me an annoyed humph that we’re having this conversation while Callie is at work. I could’ve waited till later that night, but I was too excited and needed someone to talk to as soon as I got off. Also, I finally put my tips in the bank and needed to buy some more groceries, so confiding in Callie was inevitable.
“Tall, built, brown hair, beard, bright green eyes,” I begin to explain. “White shirt, your typical looking mountain man.”
Callie stops ringing up my items and looks up toward the ceiling like a thought is coming to her.
“Wait a minute,” she says.
“Could you please hurry up.” The angry lady behind me scowls.
Callie rolls her eyes and continues checking out the few remaining items.
“I think I might know who you’re talking about,” Callie says, h
ushed. “Does he have broad shoulders and a tattoo on the inside of his arm? And messy hair that parts to one side?”
I try to think back to him at the café and remember seeing something on his arm, but I didn’t get a close look, but I’m pretty sure that’s him. I nod, and recognition flashes in her eyes as she searches her memory and I smile.
“Adonis cannot be trusted,” she states.
“What the heck does that mean?” I ask.
“Adonis. We call him Adonis, this Tate friend of yours. Every time he comes in, Muriel comes over the loudspeaker and says ‘Adonis, aisle 6.’ Or ‘Adonis in the dairy department.”
