Page 7 of Tackle

Sweat trickled down the small of his back and even his pits felt damp. He needed to get a grip. For God’s sake how hard could it be?

Just go in and ask her, you nitwit.

Throwing his door open wide, he got out of his SUV and marched to the door, determination behind every stride. Until the moment he stepped through the entrance and spotted Emerson standing behind the bar. That stopped him in his tracks, all thoughts and worries flying from his head.

Because her back was to him.

And she’d done something different with her hair.

Somehow, she’d defied gravity, the heavy mass sitting atop her head held in place with a set of sticks. The style exposed the back of her neck, and, hand to the bible, Oz had never been so turned on by such a small amount of exposed skin.

As he stared, mesmerized, she turned, and their eyes locked. Her lips turned up, giving him her fucking beautiful smile.

His feet moved. Not to his usual table in the back but to an empty seat at the bar.

Emerson plopped the beer she held down in front of a customer then made her way over. “Fancy meeting you here.”

The line and its delivery had been effortless. Not something she seemed to think about or worry over beforehand. Oz, on the other hand, couldn’t for the life of him remember what he was supposed to say. So, of course, he said nothing.

“You didn’t sit at your usual table. Are you here to eat?”

Food. That he could decide on. He didn’t need a menu, and she didn’t offer one. Keeping it simple, he ordered a bacon cheeseburger and champ fries.

“Anything to drink?”

“Coke.”

“Coming right up.”

He watched as she typed in his order, deep breathing the whole time, and psyching himself up.

She came back, setting his soda down in front of him. In for a penny, in for a pound. He took a deep breath and…

His cell rang, before he could get the words out.

Shit. He fumbled the phone, sent the call to voicemail, then shoved it back in his pocket.

It rang again.

“Maybe you should answer that. Sounds like it could be important.”

He didn’t want to. What he wanted to ask her was more important. But he couldn’t concentrate with his phone going off every two seconds. Internally fuming, he pulled the damn thing out again. Seeing his agent’s name, he knew he couldn’t ignore it because Rich might be finally getting back to him with news about his sister. Or lack of one. The letter was still stuck to the front of his refrigerator, the accompanying phone number goading him to make the call. The only thing that had stopped him, time and time again, from picking up the phone was his promise to Rich to wait until he got him the info.

“Sorry, I do need to answer this,” he sighed, thumbing it on.

“I’ll go see if your order’s ready.”

Oz kept his eyes on Emerson as he brought his phone to his ear. When she was a safe distance away, he mumbled, “You have impeccable timing.”

“What?” Rich’s voice boomed over the line, sounding confused.

“Never mind.” As one of the most outgoing people Oz had ever met, he knew Rich would never understand anyway. “Are you calling with news?”

“Yep. Got all the details on one Nora Olson for you.”

Silence filled the line and impatience had Oz grinding his teeth to keep from snapping at the man. “And?”

“And,” he came back sounding far too blasé for Oz’s liking and it was on the tip of his tongue to remind the guy he’d left him hanging for over a week, waiting for information. “As far as I can tell, she seems legit. Nora Olson, born in Kansas City, Missouri on July eighth, nineteen ninety-nine to parents John Olson and Rebecca Henley. You said your dad left when you were eight, right? That timeline seems to fit.”

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