Page 11 of Mensa's Match

Gyros were one of his favorite foods, but unless he made it himself, he had to be careful. Not every place left off the tzatziki sauce, and some places had dairy in the pita bread. Two years ago, he’d found DeeLight’s, a locally-owned restaurant that made great fucking gyros. When he explained his predicament, they bent over backward to accommodate him.

Dontrell, the owner of the restaurant, came inside with his order.

“Surprised you brought this yourself, man,” Mensa said.

Dontrell put the bag on the bar. “Sometimes it’s good to get away. See how the staff does when the cat’s away and all that. For Open Mic night, this place seems slow.”

“It’s only eight-thirty. Give it time. You want a drink?”

Dontrell declined, but didn’t move to leave. Instead, he shared with Mensa his opinion on the NBA playoffs. Mid-conversation,Dontrell grinned as his focus shifted down the bar. “Houston! Been a long time since I saw you.”

Thinking of a man he went to high school with named Houston, Mensa turned his head, but his expression dimmed when he saw Whitney striding toward them. He’d done his best to ignore her being in the bar. Whitney’s eyes were locked on Dontrell, and she appeared to be oblivious to Mensa’s presence. The way she smiled at Dontrell, she had a girl-next-door quality about her. Her smile was so friendly, it filled her eyes with a brightness he didn’t get to see from her.

“My last name isn’t Houston, Donny, but thanks for the crazy compliment.”

He turned his head back to Dontrell with a questioning eyebrow arch. “Donny?”

Dontrell shrugged. “Only the pretty ladies can call me that.”

“What are you doing here?” Whitney asked, her eyes pinned on Mensa, the friendly light snuffed out.

“I work here, Blume. What happened to your quiet night?”

She stepped up to the bar. “I changed my mind when I heard you wouldn’t be here.”

For some bizarre reason, that stung. He shifted his eyes toward Dontrell and back to her. “How do you know Dontrell?”

A coy grin twisted her ruby-red lips. “Finding the best gyro is one of the top ten things I do when I move to a new city. DeeLight’s is my favorite place in town.”

He didn’t want to know that about her.

“You gonna swing by for lunch soon, Houston? Been too long since I saw you,” Dontrell said.

“Absolutely. Might bring Aunt Nadia by to see you.”

Dontrell laughed. “You do that, but I won’t hold my breath. Until she retires, that woman’s gonna work through lunch.”

No matter the night or the customers on the other side of the bar, Mensa scanned the room routinely. He watched Aurorahurry to the doors with her keys dangling from her fingers. His eyes slid to the right, and he saw Rod sat at a low-top table, nursing his beer, and staring intently at Whitney. For the first time, Mensa wished the brothers had insisted on no club colors being worn inside Twisted Talons. He didn’t like this guy, but he didn’t have any rational basis for it.

The occasional whiff of Whitney’s gardenia scent hit Mensa and it drove him crazy. Any other patron, he’d let her carry on this conversation with Dontrell. Instead, he leaned forward an inch. “You need another drink, Blume?”

She turned to him with an annoyed expression she tried to hide from Dontrell. “No. Finn brought us another round. I’m actually on my way to my car. I need to give something to Riley.”

Dontrell swung his arm toward the doors. “Don’t let us hold you up, Houston. Get back to your girls.”

She grinned. “Thanks, Donny, and you should stick around. I’m supposed to sing in ten minutes.”

Mensa wiped down the bar intending to hit the break room during her song. He’d forced himself to deal with watching her in the bar, and catching her enticing scent, but listening to her sing again would push him over the edge.

“I’m gonna hit the john. Tell Whitney that I’m sticking around to hear her sing,” Dontrell said.

Less than a minute later, Mensa jerked his head up to see Whitney storming to the bar, her cell phone in hand.

“Can you pull your security feeds, Mensa? Somebody stole my car that was parked right out front. It looks like there’s a camera trained on that parking space, so—”

Her volume had risen and Mensa held up a hand. “If it’s the camera along the fence line, it was struck by lightning during a thunderstorm on Saturday.”

Her head tilted at a perfect angle and he struggled against the urge to kiss her.

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