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Oops. How did I let that slip so easily? I start the countdown in my head, knowing we’re only seconds away from a line of questioning because I simply don’t wear lipstick.
His eyes widen. “Oh! Isthatwhat’s different? Lipstick. So… does that mean you’re going out with that Ranger tonight?”
And there it is. “No. You know I don’t date—”
“—military guys,” he finishes for me. “Yeah, I know. The whole island knows. But that lipstick tells me something completely different.”
“You know, I thought men weren’t supposed to notice anything.” I try to change the subject.
“We generally don’t. Unless it’s the smell of bacon. But that’s some bright lipstick. For you, anyway.”
I cringe. “Too bright?”
“I’m an old man. How would I know what lipstick is supposed to look like? I don’t think my wife has worn lipstick since the Bush Administration. ThefirstBush, that is. You know, if you start wearing lipstick during the day, Harriet will suspect you’re slipping out to interview for jobs elsewhere.”
“Which is exactly what we all should be doing,” I mutter.
“You haven’t started yet?”
“Too happy living in denial. Besides, if someone offered me a job right now, I couldn’t accept it till she closes after Labor Day.”
“She wouldn’t fault you for taking another job right now. None of us would.”
I sigh, pouring in grandma’s secret ingredient vodka and seriously considering taking a swig of it afterward. Because the fact is, Ihavestarted looking at job openings online. And my prospects aren’t good. Any job I get in another diner wouldn’t pay me enough to cover my mortgage plus dog walking services for Junie since I’d be commuting into Savannah.
Chances are, I’ll have to dust off my MBA. There were a couple consulting firms in Savannah similar to Barham, Tanner, and Butler that might be interested in hiring me if I can just figure out a way of dancing around the question,“So, why did you leave your last job?”
My humiliation continues to haunt me.
Digging into the dough with his beefy hands, Bo glances at me, concern in his eyes. “You know, I’ve got a handle on the crusts tonight,” he tells me. “Maybe you should head home a little earlier than usual.”
“You wouldn’t mind?”
“Of course not. And I, uh, happened to grill up a couple extra burgers for you and your housemate. They’re in the take-out boxes on the counter.”
I glance over at them. “You did?”
“Yeah. They’ll go with that pie you stashed in the back of the fridge,” he finishes, his tone teasing me.
Caught.
“Oh, it’s just—”
“For you. Yeah, sure. For you, and not for your housemate who comes in herewaymore than he would if he wasn’t interested in you.”
“He’s not interested. He—”
“Doesn’t date women who bake pie?” he finishes for me.
My eyes snap to him. “You reallydohear everything that’s said in this diner.”
“I ain’t lyin’.” He answers with a grin, pulling out a slight Southern drawl that I rarely hear from him. “You know, I think he meant it as a joke, kiddo.”
I sigh. “Maybe. But you can’t get more direct than telling a woman you just want topick her brain.” I shake my head, reminding myself how I feel—or how I’msupposedto feel—about military guys. But the more time I spend with Dax, the more I tend to forget he even wears a uniform, as if his life on weekdays is completely separate from his life when he comes to the island. “Besides, it doesn’t matter.”
“Apparently it matters enough for you to be wearing lipstick. You should make a move.”
I snort. “Bo, I don’thaveany moves.”
