Page 8 of Edge of Secrets

At three-fifteen, I felt a familiar tingle in the nape of my neck and looked up from the banana kiwi smoothie I was blending. Well, look at that. Here he was. My own personal coping mechanism, standing right there. Nice.

I welcomed the restorative thrill, vaguely guilty for indulging myself. But I didn’t have much to thrill about. I’d take what I could get. The guy would never know or care.

He looked at his favorite table, but it was occupied. He chose another, frowning with irritation as he pulled out his laptop. Monica jerked her chin in the direction of his table, although the man had seated himself in her section, not mine. Even Monica knew.

Norma tapped my shoulder. “Get that strip steak ready pronto, Nelly,” she murmured under her breath. “That big, tall, strapping drink of water looks hungry.”

“I don’t want to give him the strip steak,” I said rebelliously. “Always the same damn thing, day after day. It can’t be good for him. To say nothing of the nutritional implications and all that saturated fat, a person needs stimulation, variety, change! Or else they’re as good as dead!”

Norma snorted. “You’re a fine one to talk, sweet cheeks. I have a suggestion for you. Go tap him on the shoulder and tell him he needs a change, and so do his arteries. The tofu cashew stir-fry. The curried chickpeas. Or a candlelit dinner with you.”

“Norma! As freaking if! He doesn’t even know that I exist!”

“And whose fault is that?” Norma shot back, exasperated. “You’d be gorgeous if you played yourself up a little bit, and I’m talking the absolute minimum! You’d cause car accidents when you walked down the street! Go on, get the man coffee!”

I marched out onto the restaurant floor. I was so damn sick of being lectured and hounded. And why would a person want to be responsible for car accidents on the street? For fuck’s sake. I wasn’t interested in stupid power games with anyone.

I plopped the coffee on the table beside the guy, slapped a menu down, and whipped out my order pad. “The usual? Again?” I demanded. Monica passed with a tray of soups, making smooching sounds. I gave her a narrow look. Don’t you dare, girl.

He frowned at his screen. “Why ask? You know what I want.”

I took a deep breath. “That’s a good question. One to which I have perhaps given more thought than it actually deserves, but I am prepared to answer.”

His fingers slowed their incessant tapping on the keyboard, then stopped, and reached for his coffee. He took a slow sip, still watching his screen. Still not looking at me. “Okay,” he said, his voice guarded. “Let’s have it, then.”

My heart thumped. “Although I know that you always want the strip steak, the one day I don’t ask will be the day that—out of sheer perversity—you decide you want the bulgur pilaf.”

“I promise you, that’s not going to happen.” He looked up at me. For the first time ever, I had his full, direct attention.

Whoa. It was dizzying. Like standing in a strong wind. He looked straight into my face, his eyes narrowed and thoughtful. They were dark, penetrating, intense. Gorgeous. He had unbelievably long lashes.

“Therefore,” I continued, “by saying, ‘the usual,’ I’m killing two birds with one stone. I acknowledge that you have a relationship with us, and that we will cater to your preferences. But asking at all pays homage to the fact that life is full of surprises, and people do change.” I poised my pen over the pad. “Your order, sir?”

He stared at me for a long moment … and blinked. I waited, belly fluttering.

“The usual,” he said blandly.

I turned tail and ran.

Back behind the counter, Norma gave my cheek an approving pat. “Good start! Not what I told you to say, but boy, did he take notice! No, no, don’t look now! He’s still looking at you. Wow, he’s practically staring! For goodness’ sake, act nonchalant.”

“Yeah. Like, play it cool, girlfriend,” Monica advised. “Like, you could take it or leave it.”

“Leave me alone. You’re embarrassing me to death. Monica, would you take over his table? I can’t face him again,” I begged.

“Not in a million years,” Monica said, heartlessly. “He’s all yours, chica. Knock yourself out.”

“I’ll dip up his coleslaw,” Norma said in a businesslike tone. “Put the roll onto the grill, and tuck that hair behind your ears. Monica, get a bowl of soup, and pass me those veggies! And give the man some extra potatoes. There’s a lot of him to nourish.”

Norma and Monica smartly assembled his lunch and passed the tray into my cold, nerveless hands. The guy pushed his computer to one side of the table and watched as I laid the dishes down. His gaze on my face made my skin tingle and burn.

I straightened my spine and forced myself to look into his eyes. “Will that be all?” Damn. My voice sounded so wispy and tremulous.

His eyes traveled down my body. Slow, cool, assessing. I wished desperately that I hadn’t called attention to myself. If he kept looking at me like that, I was going to melt, burn, combust. Fly into a million pieces.

“For now,” he said. His voice was so scratchy and deep and low.

I retreated to the kitchen, where Norma and Monica hooted and cheered in whispers. “He’s eating you with his eyes, honey! Don’t look! Get the coffeepot and do a round,” Norma directed. “Let him look his fill.”

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