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Here on Tybee Island, though, I can’t so much as sneeze without hearing a dozen immediateGod Bless Yousfollowed by at least two steaming hot pots of chicken noodle soup showing up mysteriously on my doorstep.
I love that.
But in this moment, with at least half the town thinking it’s somehow my destiny—correction—myresponsibilityto buy this diner, I’m wishing I had a measured dose of my old anonymity.
“I’m not up for it, Mr. Louis,” I reply.
Yet I dare to imagine it, just for a brief moment—all the things I’d do if this place was mine.
Dax smiles, quickly finishing off the last bite of his pie. “I’m with Mr. Louis. Every town needs a diner.”
He hands me back his plate, empty. His hand briefly touches mine as he does, the simple action releasing a million lovely hormones inside me.
Oh, buddy. If you’re going to live here—share my town, share my house—you better not touch me again.
Especially if you’re not interested in me, military or not.
I let the memory of his rejection a couple weeks ago simmer in my gut just enough to give me a much-needed reality check.
As though on cue, a perfect beach bod blonde walks in with her giggling college counterparts.
And every one of them would look more appropriate on this guy’s arm than me in my jeans and t-shirt with the diner’s logo emblazoned across my chest.
At the sound of the chimes, he glances at the young women who just walked through the door as I move to guide them to a booth by the window.
“So are you headed back to Savannah tonight?” I ask him when I return.
He frowns. “Yeah. I’ll head out of here around nineteen hundred hours. Will you be home?”
“Not yet.”
He tilts his head like he’s about to ask me something. Then it straightens, as though he’s changed his mind. “Well, I’ll see you next weekend then.”
“Not if I see you first.” Inwardly, I cringe at the tone that again escapes me. Or maybe it’s just in my imagination. Because as I’m saying it, I can’t help picturing myself waiting for him, donning expensive lingerie.
He gets up to leave and I watch him, fully expecting him to strike up a conversation with the blonde woman before he departs through the door. With the way her eyes are locked on him, all he’d have to do is curl his finger at her and she’d probably follow him home.
But he doesn’t even spare her a glance. Or any of the women at that table, for that matter.
How unexpected.
I sigh after he walks out the door.
“You sure are out of practice, honey,” Harriet tells me, her tone positively woeful.
“Out of practice?”
“Your flirting skills.”
Horrified, my face screws up. “I wasn’t flirting with him.”
“You were. We all saw it.”
To my mortification, at least three other heads around us bob up and down.
“Would you like a piece of my pie withextrawhipped cream?” Mrs. Marge does an exaggerated imitation of me that makes everyone at the counter explode with laughter.
My shoulders slump. “I was taking his order. Besides,” I feel compelled to add, “I don’t date military guys.”
