Page 15 of The Check Down

The foot traffic picks up as we near the corner of Beale Street. Our steps slow to accommodate, and our bodies instinctively draw closer.

Still holding my hand, Brynn tips her head back and considers the sign above our destination. “I’ve never been here before.”

I can’t stop my mouth from dropping. “You’re for real?”

Nodding, she bites her bottom lip.

That’s all it takes for my head to have a serious discussion with his downstairs counterpart. “How long have you lived in Memphis?”

I hold the door open for her, and her fingers fall from my grasp.

She steps past me, peering at me sheepishly through her lashes. “Four years.”

I sigh. “We’re tabling this travesty until we get a table.”

She smirks at my bad joke but steps closer as she takes in the diner. It isn’t too crowded, thank fuck. We’re in the sweet spot between the dinnertime rush and the late-night crowds who gather after they leave the bars, so we get a table right away.

A waitress takes our drink orders as soon as we slide into the booth, and I point to Brynn to confirm. “Sausage and cheese plate?”

“I’m sorry?” Her dark brows knit together. “That’s a thing?”

Head tilted, I study her, and she mimics me, even narrowing her eyes like mine. But she twists her lips to keep a smile at bay.

Gah, she’s fucking adorable.

She’s also another man’s woman, the little goody-two-shoes voice I usually ignore reminds me. I’d like to throat punch that guy.

“That’s a thing,” I turn to our patient waitress. “A thing we’d like to order.”

“Surething.” She smirks. “And I’ll try to keep the vultures away the best I can.”

I don’t need to sneak a glance, because I feel them. All the eyeballs pointed in our direction.

I’m used to it. But Brynn is not. So I’d give this gruff waitress the keys to Seth’s new car if it meant keeping this dining experience from becoming a fan frenzy.

In Nashville, I rarely attempted a sit-down restaurant without taking several preliminary steps—calls to management, rooms blocked off, renting out private spaces, bodyguards. That our table hasn’t been swarmed confirms that Memphis is exactly where I need to be. In my periphery, I spy a lone cell phone lift to snap a picture, but other than that, the diners gawk for a moment, then return to their plates.

“Trish,” I say, reading the name tag pinned on the woman’s shirt, “we might be in the clear. But thank you for looking out.”

Once Trish whisks off to get our drinks, I lay my palms on the table. “Now,” I say to Brynn. “Please tell me how you’ve lived here for four years and have never eaten at Blues City Cafe. This is a Memphis institution.”

Brynn shrugs and fiddles with the napkin-wrapped silverware. “There are lots of Memphis institutions I’ve never been to.”

“Graceland?”

Her eyes dart to mine. “Check.”

“The Pyramid?”

“It’s a Bass Pro Shop,” she hedges.

“It’s an adventure,” I argue, though I’m smiling. Can’t help it when she studies me with those serious brown eyes.

Her lips twist to the side again. She wants to give in, but she’s not quite allowing herself. Is this a common theme in her life? If so, then I’m hella surprised she accepted my invitation to leave the Peabody.

“What’s with the sausage and cheese thing?”

Now it’s my turn to shrug. “A sausage and cheese plate.”

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