Page 14 of My Secret Santa Dallas

“No,” I said. “Too salty.”

A lady, an African American with neatly combed gray hair, came over with a pad in hand. “Do I dare believe my eyes,” she said. “Is that you, Dallas?”

He slid out of his chair and hugged her, his lanky size dwarfing the lady comically. He even had to crouch a little to do it, his knees bending at a weird angle, which reminded me of a ballerina doing a plié.

I barely smothered a laugh. He looked at me.

“Miss Betty,” he said. “It’s me all right.”

She pulled away and tapped his cheek like an old auntwould do to their favorite nephew or niece. “Bless my heart. I am so happy to see you, Dallas. I remember when you’d come in here every Thursday evening after football practice, ready to tear down the sign outside, throw some hot sauce on it, and go to town.”

I swallowed my laugh wrong and spluttered into my fist.

Dallas was not happy.

“Sit your butt down and tell me what you want,” Miss Betty said.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied. He did exactly as she’d said and looked at the menu. “Before you ask, there is no filet mignon or whatever fancy schmancy thing you eat at some five-star gig.”

I ignored him, “Miss Betty, is it? I’d like some chicken and dumplings, fried green tomatoes, fried okra, and some extra cornbread. Sweet tea if you have it.”

“Oh, sweet girl,” Miss Betty smiled widely as she jotted the order down. “Music to my ears. And for you, Dallas?”

“Do you still have that buttermilk fried chicken with a side of mashed potatoes and onion rings?” he asked.

“We do,” she said.

“I’ll take it,” he said. “And Mayor Treeve said he’ll pick up the tab.”

“All righty, coming right up,” she said and moved off.

Dallas gave me an eye, “What was so amusing a while ago?”

I shook my head. “You won’t like it when I tell you.”

Bracing both forearms on the table, he leaned in with those sharp, cutting eyes. “Try me.”

Chapter Five

Blair

“All right,” I said, “When you went to hug her, you made this weird crouch that made you look like Vladimir Frolov Kravchenko.”

“Who is that?” he asked. “An old boyfriend?”

I rolled my eyes. “He is a Russian ballerino, newly minted as one of the best on Broadway. I pictured you in a leotard and a tutu, and I lost it.”

“Jesus,” Dallas muttered. “Don’t do that.”

Once again, I ignored him. “Football player, eh?”

He looked up from the dessert menu. “The type you went for?”

“I preferred AP nerds with coke bottle glasses and a penchant for five-year plans, a 401K investment, and understated Tom Ford suits,” I replied. “What is your taste in women?”

“Tom Ford?” he asked, completely ignoring my question— or possibly putting it off. “No fancy names?”

“I was going to say Ermenegildo Zegna, but I decidedto hedge on to a name you would know,” I said while a waiter came and poured our drinks. “Ford and Zenga are about the same price range, five grand and up.”

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