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“Well, sort of. I rescued the body from an old junkyard and had a crew resto-mod it for me. We got as many original parts as we could, but there’s still too much new stuff in here for it to be considered the real McCoy.”
“This is seriously the coolest car I’ve ever seen.” I’m completely fawning over this guy’s car. But honestly, it’s as hot and gorgeous as its owner.
“Thanks. I don’t usually take her out, but it is so nice today, I’d thought I’d let her stretch her legs a little. We’ve got about twenty or thirty minutes depending on traffic to get to the bar.”
“Wait,” I pause, giving him my best impression of a flirtatious smile. “But only after breakfast, right?”
The corners of his mouth quirk up slightly, and I can tell he’s pleased I’m asking to spend more time with him, although for the life of me I can’t understand why I want to. Maybe I just want to sit in this beautiful car for a while. Or maybe it’s the beautiful driver I want to sit beside.
He winds the car through a green canopy of trees that rise and fall like the waves of an ocean. We finally come to a stop outside a cute little cafe in a small Atlanta suburb I’m not familiar with. It’s called theDay Old Bagel, and I really hope they also have egg white omelets. I’m suddenly starving, and granola isn’t going to cut it today.
A line of people wait for tables and sip Bloody Marys and mimosas. It’s a Thursday morning, for crying out loud. Don’t these people need to be at work?
When the hostess spots us, she gives a big smile. “Hello, Mr. Rose,” she says, gazing up at Connor. “Table for two?”
Connor nods and I notice we’re getting some pretty envious glances from the mimosa-sipping crowd around us. I can’t blame them.
“Would you like to be seated inside or on the patio?”
“Patio, please,” he says. We’re immediately escorted to a quiet table outside. At a small pocket park across the street, a couple of guys throw a frisbee and some ladies power walk along the trail. The laughter of a child, squealing as his mom pushes him in a swing, comes floating faintly over a light summer breeze.
Our server comes over immediately carrying two cups of coffee, a tiny steel pitcher of cream and a glass holder of sugar packets.
“Good morning, sir. It’s good to see you again. Would you and your guest like a few minutes to look over the menu?”
“Yeah, thanks Micah,” he says, and we’re left to peruse the sheet of paper placed in front of us.
The menu is printed on brown parchment in a pretty font that looks like someone’s handwriting. The options seem much more upscale than just your basic scrambled eggs and bacon. I see lobster eggs Benedict and a crab cake sandwich with an over-easy egg, arugula and a side of fresh berries. Everything looks seasonal. I glance down toward the bottom of the menu and see a list of local growers who are providing the ingredients for today’s menu offerings.
“This place is great. You must come here a lot?” I offer, perusing my options. Everything sounds so good.
He nods and adds cream and sugar to his coffee. “I pop in from time to time,” he says and leans back in his chair taking a long, slow sip.
The server reappears, and I order the tomato pie with a side of sage sausage and fresh berries along with orange juice.
Connor simply smiles and waves dismissively. “You already know what I want, Micah.”
Pops in from time to time, huh? He has a usual order. This must be his regular go-to breakfast place where he brings all the women who spend the night with him, lose their clothing and ride in his fancy red sports car. His little extra for the ladies during their drive of shame the morning after. When a man looks like he does, that’s probably a weekly occurrence at least.
While we wait for our food, Connor surveys me up and down with a frank curiosity. He’s not even trying to be discreet about it. He just sits and stares. His face has an expression like he’s trying to make up his mind about me, and is debating an inward pro/con list. This judgment is why silence is scary.
“What?” I finally say, taking a sip of my coffee. It’s strong, but not bitter at all. Probably the best cup of coffee I’ve had in a long time. And that’s saying something. The gourmet blends I buy on Amazon are like thirty bucks a pound. Well, used to buy when I had a job.
“You’ve really never been on vacation?” He begins as if we’ve been in the middle of this conversation for several hours.
“What? How would you know that?” Talk about rude and presumptuous.
“You’re a real chatty Cathy after about your third whiskey,” he says with a slightly amused expression.
“What … what did I say?” OK, so maybe not so presumptuous. Maybe just an eavesdropper. My fingers slowly begin picking away at the edge of my napkin. It takes several long minutes before I realize I’m fingering the notes ofDvorak’s Cello Concerto No. 2.
Connor swats at a lone red wasp that has flown in to investigate our beverages. “You said the man who interviewed you wouldn’t give you the job because you didn’t go on vacation.”
“I said that after the third whiskey?”
Connor nods.
“Well, then let it be known throughout the land, I am officially a two-whiskey girl.” Connor chuckles a little, but doesn’t comment.
