Page 16 of Peaches

Gerry chuckles. “I’d say we’re doing mighty fine. But I think these girls need some more sugaring up.”

Simone and her friends cheer in unison, and I join in with a laugh. “How about some strawberry sundaes?” I ask, arching my brow.

The girls squeal and Gerry’s eyes twinkle. He nods in confirmation, and I shoot him a small wink before heading toward the computer to key in their desserts. I don’t make it more than two steps before I hear Gerry ask, “Olivia?”

I turn back to face him. “Yes?”

“Isn’t it about time you found a nice young man to start settling down with?”

My stomach lurches. His expression is kind, and I know he means well—Gerry is an old man from a much more traditional generation—but if I had a nickel for every time someone in this town has asked about my love life, I definitely wouldn’t be working so many shifts here.

The truth is, I can’t fathom settling down right now. From my total inexperience in the romance department to my hesitation to trust anyone with my whole heart, I’m not even sure how—if—I’ll ever get there.

Though, I have to admit the feeling that I’m missing out on something important has been gnawing at me more and more lately. It’s a big part of why I’ve been forcing myself to swipe on the apps and go on dates—I don’t want to avoid something important just because it scares me. I force my face to hold its smile and say, “Not yet, sir, but I’m looking!”

Gerry beams. “Atta girl. You know, I was quite the matchmaker back in my day. If you ever need any help, or maybe some pointers?—”

“I’ll come find you,” I insist, backing away from the table.

The bells over the door ring in the harmonic signal of a new customer, and I turn to find a broad-shouldered man dressed in all black walking inside, a cowboy hat atop his mess of dark waves. Shit—Rhett. The restaurant quiets as everyone’s collective interest narrows on him, and I see the way his back stiffens and mouth falls into a frown. The realization that I forgot about our date swoops through me as I watch him scan the dining room, no doubt looking for me.

My feet bring me to him of their own volition. When his eyes find mine, I see the relief flash through them before they harden into something else. “Rhett,” I say in a low, hushed voice. “I’m so sorry?—”

“You stood me up.”

I shake my head. “No, oh my gosh, no. I’ve been stuck here all day and honestly forgot that—well, and the other waitress called out sick and . . .” I throw a hand toward the tables behind me. “And things got busy. I’m so sorry.”

He simply stares at me. I realize his ears are tinged a bright shade of pink, and I wonder if he’s nervous. Or maybe he’s just mad after trying to collect me from my house for the date we’re supposed to be having only to realize I wasn’t there.

“I’m sorry,” I say again. “God . . . I should have realized. I should have called.”

He cocks his head, considering. “You don’t have my phone number.”

“No,” I agree. “But still, I should have.”

His eyes seem to soften as his posture relaxes. Someone at a table coughs, and a low murmuring of hushed voices weaves through the café.

“Do you want to sit down for a few minutes?” I ask, hopeful. “I should be able to get out of here soon, and I’m so hungry I could eat one of Gus’s contest pizzas all by myself.” Gus offers a free T-shirt and hat to anyone who can eat his extra-large, double-stuffed pizza in one sitting by themselves. It’s mostly a thing Mustang’s Pizza does for the high school football team, but occasionally others—like Shirley Tucker’s eighty-two-year-old grandmother—like to try.

For the record, Shirley’s grandmothernearlyfinished it.

A hint of amusement dances across Rhett’s face. “Yeah.” He nods. “Okay.”

I lead him to an empty booth in the far corner of the restaurant, avoiding the gazes of everyone around us—and their gazes are no doubt locked in. Because not only did Rhett Bennett just walk through our door, but he’s being seated and staying awhile, and even though I pride myself on minding my own business, this is the kind of big deal people in this town trip over themselves to witness. “Here you go,” I say when we reach the table, giving him my bestthis is totally finesmile.

Rhett scoots himself into the side of the booth that faces the wall, keeping his back turned to the rest of the patrons. “Thanks,” he says, the corners of his mouth turned down. His eyes are still a pair of thunderclouds, and I’m determined to see them clear.

“Can I get you something to drink? A shirley temple? Oh! We have milkshakes . . .”

“Water would be great.”

I nod. “Okay. I’ll be right back—and I promise I’ll be done here soon.”

His eyes seem to come alive at that as they trace across my face. “Soon,” he agrees in a low voice. Anticipation for whatever he has planned builds, and I book it to the kitchen.

CHAPTERSEVEN

RHETT

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