Page 2 of Finding His Fire

Slowly pushing his cup to the edge of the table, she gritted her teeth as she concentrated on filling it but fantasied about dumping the whole pot over his head.

"I think we both know why I'm here."

Lifting her eyes to his, she slowly inhaled and held her breath for a moment before exhaling.

"I don't know where Waylon is. We're divorced. Have been for over six damned years. He doesn't check in. He doesn't call. He doesn't write. He doesn't visit. And I like it that way. I want nothing to do with him or you or any of your cohorts. Now, if I need to call the police about the harassment, I certainly will."

A smile spread across his face in a slow slither, as if he were a snake—which was the perfect way to describe him. He was a drug runner, and unfortunately for her, so was Waylon. Also, unfortunately for her, Waylon seemed to have stolen a very valuable something from Marcus, and he wanted it back.

"I think you're blowing this all out of proportion. I'm sitting here drinking coffee, not unlike those gentlemen over there you chatted so nicely with, and I simply ask you a couple of questions about a mutual friend. Don't think the cops are going to be too interested in that story."

She clenched her jaw tightly as her breathing increased.

"Plus, with your record, I don't think the police are going to believe you over me. I don't have a police record."

"Yet," she spat out.

He shrugged.

Turning abruptly, she hustled back to the kitchen, more to get away from him than anything else, but also … well, to get away from him. Ramming her fists into her apron pockets to hide the shaking from Nila, she walked past the table set with her plate and a fresh glass of orange juice, intending to use the restroom.

"Hey girl, you need to eat," Nila called after her.

Giving a quick wave of her hand and a glance over her shoulder, she replied, "Just gotta use the bathroom. Be back."

Locking the wooden door behind her, she leaned against it, wrapping her hands around her stomach, hoping to quell the roiling. He was right in that he didn't actually do anything to her other than ask questions, but she knew for a fact that he'd followed her home yesterday and the day before. He watched her house most of the night too. She'd gone onto her front porch to water all of her flowers, and there he was, not even hiding the fact that he was watching her. In the middle of the night, she could have sworn she heard footsteps on the porch. Her heart beat so fast, she thought it'd take off and fly away. Listening for the jiggle of the door handle or the rattle of one of her old windows, she was finally able to relax after about an hour when no such sounds reached her ears. She didn't mention it today because she wanted to pretend it wasn't happening, and he wasn't getting bolder. She was probably being stupid. These weren't people you messed with. If she knew where that jackass ex-husband of hers was, she'd turn him over in a heartbeat.

"Megan, honey, time to get rolling. You okay in there?" Nila knocked softly.

"Yes. I'll be right out, Nila."

Washing her hands, she breathed in and out a couple times and told herself it would be all right. Leaving the bathroom, she smoothed down her apron, shoulders back, head high and forced herself to be brave. Then she heard Chad, the busboy, say, "Huh, never seen that guy before.”

Chapter3

Shuffling through the pictures once more, Ford stopped on the picture of Megan. Waylon June's ex-wife was a pretty little thing. Green eyes that sparkled at the camera and thick auburn hair trailing to just past her shoulder blades was a stunning combination. Her sweet, perfect smile and smattering of light freckles across her nose spoke of innocence and purity. But you aren't married to a drug dealer and remain pure. Those two things don't go together. And she had an arrest on her record.

He looked up and saw the sign above where she worked: The Log Cabin Restaurant. He shook his head and muttered, "Why in the hell would you work in a restaurant, Megan?"

He glanced through her dossier again. Four years of nursing school. Worked in the field in a hospital for two years, a nursing home for ten, then abruptly quit and began working at The Log Cabin as a waitress. What would make a single woman give up a career where she made good money to sling hash in a little place like that? If her ex was any indicator, she was trouble or looking for it.

Entering the diner, the bell above the door called out his entrance. A red-haired waitress behind the counter glanced his way and smiled. "Take a seat anywhere you like. One of us will be around with coffee in a minute."

He nodded and glanced to the right. A couple of empty tables sat toward the middle of the dining room and one empty booth toward the window. The booth called his name, so he strode over, slid on the vinyl seat to the middle, and picked up the menu. The smell of bacon and fresh apple pie floated in the air to his nose. He swallowed the lump that formed in his throat. His mom made the best apple pie he'd ever eaten. He loved the spices and cinnamon in her pies, and she always added an extra dash of it for him. He hadn't had apple pie since she died. It was these little things that caught him off guard. Emmy and Dawson, too. They spoke about it every so often, each of them with their own apple pie story.

Glancing around the room and taking in the occupants, he noticed a single gentleman sitting in the corner opposite him and realized he was assessing the room as well. He was by himself in a booth—no food in front of him, just coffee.

Megan walked out of the kitchen, swung past the coffeemaker and began filling the customers’ cups. He watched her move, graceful and casual as she gave each patron a bit of attention and a nice smile. She stopped at his table, and he heard her intake of breath when he looked into her eyes. Eyes that, by the way, the picture in his truck did not do justice. Green like a spring day, deep around the outside of the iris, lighter green toward the pupil and hypnotizing. Full lashes framed the green jewels, and he could see she barely wore makeup. Clear skin, faint freckles dusted her nose, and her full sensual lips held just a touch of gloss.I'll be damned.

"Care for coffee?" she chirped.

It took him a moment to respond, his mind lagging behind and thinking other thoughts. Clearing his throat, he responded, "Yes. Please."

He turned the cup over that sat on the matching saucer at his place setting and slid it to the edge of the table. He watched as she poured, her arm lifting just enough for him to see the outline of her breast hidden behind her light green apron. It was easy to see what Waylon saw in her, but what in the hell did she see in Waylon? That man was pudgy, unkempt, and a drug dealer. Made no sense.

"Have you had the chance to look at the menu? Special today is chicken if you want to forego breakfast and slide into lunch. Otherwise, we have all the usuals—eggs, bacon, sausage, pancakes, French toast and my favorite, Eggs Benedict."

"Thanks. I'll have two eggs over easy and whole wheat toast. Then, if you'd be so kind, I'd like to know where your ex-husband is."

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