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I’m screwed. I researched the place on my phone during the walk to their place and was salivating at all the delicious items on their menu. Lacy elbows me as we approach the restaurant, watching me take in the inviting facade and all its rustic charm. A cab laying on the horn startles me away from my new obsession, and I jerk my head up and down the sidewalk. I spot the cab causing the issues, but my mouth falls open.
Among the sea of people, casually enjoying their weekend, is a tall man with blue eyes staring back at me. His hand comes up and adjusts his suit jacket while our eyes continue to lock. Another man at his side notices his stare and glances my way too. I duck my head and dart into the restaurant.
This is similar to when you get a new car and then see that car everywhere on the road. Yeah, it’s like that. My pulse races and I sneak a glance back behind me, finding nothing.Lack of sleep must be getting to me.
I continue my appreciation of this place, taking in the exposed brick walls with rustic wood furnishings. Eclectic artwork is scattered throughout the place, giving my eye plenty to bounce to. The rich aroma of comfort food, buttermilk biscuits, and southern-style plates wafts through my nose and my stomach clenches.
Lacy grabs us a seat inside, with many of the other brunchers, and I snatch the menu off the table combing through their options.
“How have I never heard of this place?” I say, reading all their different types of pickles.
“Honestly, I asked myself the same question when I was here.” She points to the menu, “This is what I had last time, the Southern BLT, it will light your soul on fire and make you want to move to Alabama.”
I snort and move my eyes down the menu, deciding on a spicy chicken biscuit with hot pickles. My throat constricts clutching the menu, stewing at the price there. I could cut back on groceries this week, that way I don’t take from my savings.
The waitress takes our orders and Lacy and I enjoy the food, talking about work and her most recent argument with Eric. Their apartment is apparently too small for the both of them, so they have been arguing about whether to move. I listen but don’t have much advice to give. I admire Lacy and Eric’s relationship; they want it to work, and they work hard at it. A piece of advice that many men balk at.
Satisfied and full, I push my plate away, taking a swig of my water. The brunch crowd has thinned out, and the restaurant is quieting down around us.
“That was delicious,” I say, a slight pang in my chest because I know my dad would’ve loved this place.
“I know,” Lacy muffles around the last of her food. I laugh as the waitress swings by our table to grab the empty plates and asks if we need anything else.
“Just the checks, thanks!” Lacy says, and I’m glad she specified two separate ones.
“Oh, your table has already been settled. Have a great rest of your weekend.”
I eyeball Lacy, whose eyes are raised as well.
“I didn’t, I swear,” she says. I figured, because when would she have time to charge her card with me sitting right here? I swivel my head around the room, hunting for anyone I may recognize, but don’t see anyone.
“Me either. Weird.” An unsettling reaction churns the food in my stomach.
“Maybe someone saw us and thought they’d want to enjoy some good karma for the day.” She shrugs her shoulders, apparently less bothered by random strangers buying us a meal.
I slide out of the leather booth following her out, all the while keeping my eyes peeled. Tingling grazes the back of my neck making my insides squirm, a sensation all too familiar since last night.
Chapter7
Luka
Islept horrendous all weekend, worse than I normally do, and I blame it on a blonde-haired, blue-eyed, waitress screwing with my mind. I all but ran out of the event on Friday and I don’t spook. Ever.
Seeing her the next day in the Upper West Side sparked my curiosity, and I followed her into a rustic establishment. I told myself I was taking care of their table as some mock of twisted revenge to mess with her head, but even I’m not convinced.
I’m thrown off my game and my mind is trying to make sense of it. Is it a coincidence? Or is she working for someone? Her alive and thriving almost guarantees she is. It’s 10 a.m. Monday morning, but I’m already nursing a drink. I grab my phone and text Nik.
Where are you?
My door bursts open and Nik strolls in with a smug grin on his face. “Right here. What’s up?”
“Did you run a background check on the girl the police interviewed from that night?” I don’t have to indicate what night I’m talking about. He knows. It is a sore spot among all of us.
“I did. I’ll get it over to you this afternoon,” he says, his knee bouncing and his hands playing with a zippo lighter.
“Stop. And I want it now,” I grit out.
Nik’s eyebrows raise, but he says nothing.
