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But if I give Bo the idea that the hot Ranger who liked my pie has still been on the front burner of my sex-deprived brain this past week, I’d never hear the end of it.
“Guy?” I ask, acting oblivious.
“Yeah. The young guy who came in last weekend looking for a room to rent.”
“How did you know that?”
“Nothing happens in this diner without me knowing about it.”
True enough.
“And you haven’t had a housemate in a while,” he finishes.
My eyes widen in thought for a moment, because I honestly hadn’t even considered renting out that upstairs room again after the very messy scene with my last renter. And the one before that.
But Bo might be onto something.
Renting to Hot Guy though? Not an option. “He could be an axe murderer, Bo.”
“He seems like a good guy.”
“I’m supposed to know this from one short conversation?”
He angles his head and lifts his short sleeve a bit higher on his thick arm to reveal his tattoo—and only then do I realize it looks similar to the one on that guy. “He’s a Ranger. We’re a pretty good bunch. Rangers lead the way.”
My brow furrows, curious. “Rangers lead the way? What’s that mean?”
Disapproving of my question, he shakes his head. “It’s our motto, kiddo. Came from World War II when we stormed the beaches of Normandy. How the hell have you lived this close to Savannah without knowing that?”
“Must be hanging around the wrong people,” I laugh.
“Like that guitarist you dated for a minute last summer.” He grimaces. “That Ranger who walked in here last week is a step up from that guy. I guarantee it. Besides, didn’t you say some friends of yours sent him in here? You could see if they’d vouch for him.”
I shake my head, even though I kind of like the idea of reaching out to Freya. We traded a couple texts since my brother’s wedding last winter. She seems like the type of person I’d totally hang out with if we were in the same neighborhood.
“Bo, I lost my last two housemates,” I feel the need to remind him. “No one wants to share a house with me.”
“I think it’s moreyour dogthat they don’t want to share the house with.”
The image of my sweet, 100% pure love golden retriever forms in my head. “Is it really that bad, living with my dog?”
“Kiddo, your dog’s got worse bladder problems than my wife’s entire bridge club put together. But that guy’s military. He’s immune to that sort of thing.”
“You think?”
“You should know that. Your brother’s military,” he points out.
“True.” I take the unlabeled bottle of my grandma’s “secret” pie ingredient and pour a measured dose of it into the bowl.
I promised my grandma I’d never tell anyone her secret ingredient, and I stick to that. Of course, I’ve often wondered if she had any idea that the exact same secret ingredient appears on at least fifteen food blogs I’ve found online.
Just the same, the vodka that’s inside of the bottle remains a secret.
After we’ve got enough crusts in the refrigerator for tomorrow, I sit alone at the counter after Bo and Harriet have both gone home to their respective spouses. And while I’d love to hang out here a while on my own and just enjoy the serenity of it, I grab my purse because my dog’s hind legs are probably crossing right now.
Then I stop for a moment, turn, and head back to the counter to find the napkin with that guy’s number. Just in case.
I live just a few blocks from the diner—which is a wonderful happenstance since I bought my house before I even decided to move here full-time. With it being close to work, I can race home a few times each day to let my dog out.
