Page 151 of Branded
“Like I said,” Cas muttered. “I thought she was cool. Unfortunately—or maybe fortunately, all things considered—she proved quickly she wasn’t.” He sighed. “And I made it worth Jules’s while. She got a huge ass tip for putting up with Chelsea’s bullshit.”
“And she might have to put up Chelsea’s bullshit again if your semi-normal date decides to stakeout CeCe’s,” Smitty pointed out, protective to my core, particularly of women and particularly of women like Julie, who worked hard to provide for her son at home and didn’t need bullshit from a puck bunny who couldn’t even stand for her date to talk to a waitress.
Cas winced again. “Fuck.”
“Yeah,” Smitty said on a sigh. “Fuck.” I plunked my mug down. “You need to check in with Jules, make sure she doesn’t get any blowback from your rejects.”
Said casually.
But in a way that had me eyeing my friend closely.
Said too casually.
I studied Smitty’s face, saw interference and interest brewing in the edges of his eyes. Nosy, pushy, matchmaking motherfucker.
But thankfully that gaze was directed at Cas, not me.
So that was a victory. For the moment, anyway.
“Fuck,” Cas said. “I’ll make sure she’s good.”
Smitty nodded. “Good.” Then the big gossiping bastard turned his focus to me. “Just like you’re making sure that Be?—”
“Here you go boys!” the waitress—a hundred years old if she was a day—chirped, our plates stacked up her arms.
Pancakes.
Bacon.
Eggs.
Toast for Theo, who’d for some reason decided he needed more carbs.
For my part, I was ready to kiss our waitress, but I settled for passing out plates and getting everyone settled, encouraging them to dig in to their food so their mouths were full, and they could focus on something that wasn’t me.
Wasn’t Smitty putting the pieces together of me and Beth.
Wasn’t Smitty commenting on those pieces.
And then I started shoving pancakes into my mouth.
So it was full, and no responses could possibly be required.
Ten
Beth
The nice college-age girl brought me a cushion, which was sweet, I thought, and probably solely a byproduct of the fact that I’d finally popped.
Not just fat, but definitely preggers.
Which was…interesting.
I’d had my first person touching my belly—unwanted and unwarranted—on the way to pancakes, after having parked my car in the lot at Donna’s. I’d been on my way to the outlets, always loving to search the racks for a great deal, but as I’d gotten off the freeway, I had seen the sign for Donna’s and had gotten a lark.
Or, rather, a craving.
These babies needed pancakes.
