Page 10 of With A Little Luck
The front and right sides of his neck boast black roses, while the left side has playing cards in all four suits. More tattoos hide under the neckline of his shirt. I’ve gotten a peek before, and I believe he has wings with a phrase located just under his clavicles.
I’ve played the guessing game a few times when he had the top button or two undone on his shirt, but I’ve never been able to get an up close view.
He leans forward, grabbing his straw and opening it before popping it into his soda. “If you’re feeling rundown, it might be time to consider taking a break from work until after the baby arrives.”
“At this rate, I’ll be working until I give birth.” I snort. “I’ll put your order in.”
“I appreciate it.” He lifts his drink, and thick lips wrap around his straw as he takes a drink of his Dr Pepper.
And that’s my cue to exit…
SHR must love our club sandwiches. He always gets it with no tomato and a side of fries, even during breakfast hours, and he adds on a side salad with extra ranch dressing. We’re one of the few restaurants that serves the entire menu all day, but I don’t love salads for lunch or dinner, so I would never willingly spring for one for breakfast.
Then again, that’s probably why he looks like that, while I look like…
“Here you go.” I smile and place his sandwich and fries in front of him. The other hand holds his side salad and extra dressing on another plate, and I put it within reach. “Can I get you anything else?”
“I’m good,” he says, shoving his glasses up. “Are you not sleeping well?”
I laugh, shaking my head.
He’s terrible at small talk.
Any time we chat while I take his order or deliver his food, he’s straight to the point with his questions.
After all the talking in circles that Pete did, I find it more endearing than I probably should. It’s refreshing when someone says what they mean, so I don’t have to spend time trying to decipher what he’s thinking.
“As it turns out, an eight-month-pregnant belly is even harder to sleep with than a seven-month-pregnant belly.” I shrug, running my hand over my stomach. “But I’m hanging in there.” I smile, nodding to the table. “Enjoy your food while it’s warm. I’ll be back to check on you in a few minutes.”
“Thank you, Quincy.”
By the time I check on my other tables, visit the bathroom, and pop back to check on SHR, he’s gone.
I frown.
His food is barely touched.
Damn.
Could there have been something wrong with it?
There’s a napkin with writing stuck under the edge of the plate. I grab it and find two hundred-dollar bills as I’m pulling it out.
Shit.
I wasn’t trying to guilt him into tippingmore. He already leaves like a six- or seven-hundred-percent tip. I mean, I’m not great at math, but this is above and beyond.
Shoving the cash into my apron, I read the note.
Quincy,
I’m afraid I had to cut this meal short. I was called into work at the last minute, but I want you to have my number.
If you need anything, call me.
Trigg
Just below his name is a phone number.
