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Kirk stopped walking at the curb of the almost-full parking lot.
“A cup of coffee.” He reminded her of the question she’d never answered. “What can it hurt?”
“At The Coffee House again?” It was just a couple of miles.
His head tilted in surprise. “Yeah.”
She stepped off the curb. He didn’t. “Now?”
“Yeah.” He paused. “I’ll follow you.” He still hadn’t left the sidewalk.
Valerie was in her Mercedes, releasing her hair from its ponytail before Kirk’s odd behavior hit her. She still didn’t know what he was driving. But if, as she suspected, it was that beater she’d seen in the parking lot a few weeks ago, he probably felt embarrassed.
She didn’t see him again until he pulled into the parking lot of The Coffee House twenty minutes later. He’d obviously done something in between leaving the fitness complex and joining her. She would’ve had enough time to go in, order coffee and drink half of it.
She’d decided to wait for him, instead.
“Close your mouth, Judge,” he said
as he slid out of a mint-condition vintage Corvette, locked it and walked toward her.
“Unusual transportation for a crossing guard.”
Stupid thing to say.
But damn, there was a lot about this man that didn’t add up.
“I haven’t always been a crossing guard.”
No kidding. “What did you used to be?”
He held the door open for her. “An unhappy member of the corporate world. Now I’m a happy crossing guard.”
An explanation of sorts, if somewhat flippantly delivered. But no answer at all. How could someone with his drive and intelligence be satisfied not using his talents?
“You could always get a different job in the corporate world, one that might make you happier.”
“You’re probably right,” he said, standing beside her at the counter. “But since I have no desire to do so, I’ll let the opportunity pass.”
“You’re going to be a crossing guard for the rest of your life?”
“You have a problem with that?” His tone was light. Valerie wasn’t sure the conversation was.
“No.” Maybe. It just seemed like such a waste.
“It’s honorable work.”
“I completely agree.”
They were next in line.
“The kids deserve the best.”
“Of course they do.” But it didn’t take a young businessman successful enough to drive a mint-condition vintage Corvette to provide that at a low-traffic side street.
He stepped up to the counter. Ordered a hot chocolate for her—remembering that she liked extra whipped cream—and a coffee for himself.
And Valerie knew, without another word being said, that this particular conversation was over.
