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“Coffee,” I croak. “With cream.”
“You want coffee too?” she asks JL, examining him with interest. With his cropped dark hair, high cheekbones, long narrow face sporting the swollen nose and scruff he’ll shave off soon, liquid chocolate-brown eyes, and a crooked grin that would make any woman melt, he’s quite a dish.
“Certainement. Café au lait, s’il vous plaît.”
“You’re French? Wow.” She is gushing now.
“French Canadian,” he tells her with a comic leer. “We’re much more romantic than the French.” Then he winks. Winks!
With a giggle, she turns away to fetch our coffee.
I focus on the menu, so I don’t have to look at him.
“You’re still angry with me, ma chouette?” JL taps his fingers against the laminated card.
“Schwet? Sounds German. What does it mean?”
JL’s smooth pronunciation caresses my ear. “C-h-o-u-e-t-t-e. It’s a small owl. A term of endearment.”
“A little soon for that.”
“Not at all. I see this as a beginning. The timing is perfect.” He pats my hand just as our coffees arrive.
“Cream?”
She points to a small dish with creamers. I don’t see any half and half. “Do you have real cream? Or just some milk?”
“Sure, just a sec, and I’ll bring you some.”
When I see JL’s puzzled expression, I explain, “Don’t like artificial creamers.”
He nods as the woman comes back with a small pitcher that turns out to be heavy cream.
I pour a dollop into my cup. “Do you want one too?”
“One what?”
“A nickname?”
JL wipes foam from his lips. Even that move seems sexy, but it could be the exhaustion giving me hallucinations. “No rush. Whenever you feel comfortable.”
“Sure, Beau,” pops out of my mouth. Where did that come from?
“Guess you feel comfortable enough.” He empties the cup. “Now, let’s talk about protection.”
I take a deep breath, then blow it out in a teakettle whistle. “You’re right. They will probably release Sam on bail this morning, and there’s nothing to stop him from showing up again. The order of protection, while a legal nicety, will not keep him away. If he gets a gun, he could kill me before the police could act.”
“I don’t think his aim is to kill you, at least not now.” JL’s face is serious. “If he gets too frustrated, that could change.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” I say sarcastically. “Why do you think he isn’t interested in killing me now?”
With his next words, I remember JL has a doctorate in psychology. “Speaking with my psychologist’s hat on, I think he wants you back, not dead. But over time, if he accepts that’s not an option, then he might be angry enough to kill you. He won’t want you to be with anyone else. I’m already a goad for him.” Our server comes back.
“Ready to order?” she says, taking her pad and pen out of an apron pocket.
JL glances at the menu. “Steak and eggs look good. I’d like the steak rare, and I think we both want hash browns and toast.”
“We have white, raisin, wheat, rye, and English muffins.”
