Page 10 of Just Friends

“Pumpkin spice?” he asked his face still scrunched. “Why the hell would anyone do that to perfectly good coffee?”

“Oh, just drink your bitter bean water and shut up,” she said.

Weasel laughed. Rebecca dug into the shoulder bag and dropped a wrapped sandwich in his lap.

His eyes fell to the food. “Oh yum,” he said.

“You have no idea what it even is.”

He shrugged and unwrapped it. “I haven’t had a bad meal from you yet.”

She shook her head. He always acted like whatever she prepared was the best he’d ever eaten.

“Besides,” he continued. “I grew up dirt-ass poor. Pickiness woulda meant starving.” He crammed in part of the meal while he eyed the property.

“What is this place?” she nodded to the residence.

“Sometimes we keep witnesses here until their turn to testify.” He sipped the coffee.

“Like a safe house,” she replied. Then she shook her head. “Never mind. I know you can’t answer that.”

Weasel smiled at her and gave a small nod. “This one was supposed to testify this morning for the prosecution. The defense is now trying to block it, so here we sit, waiting on the judge to decide.”

“Well, that sounds riveting.”

He chuckled. “Yep. The glamorous life of a law enforcement officer.” His gray eyes sparkled in the afternoon sun. His eyes had light blue streaked throughout the gray, and they held her eyes until she looked away and pushed aside the awareness of him. His eyes were a unique color she’d never seen on anyone else, and they were irritatingly attractive—like the rest of him.

“I had an interesting conversation today,” she said.

“Yeah,” he responded between bites.

“Yeah, Kyle came in at work.” She sipped her latte.

He went stone still. “For what?” he asked in a tone that barely concealed the pure hatred he had for Rebecca’s ex-boyfriend.

“He’d been at the courthouse,” she replied, “and mentioned the weirdest thing. Cops have stopped him over nine times in the last four months.” She took another drink. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you, Detective?”

“I have nothing to do with traffic. Maybe he shouldn’t drive like an asshole.”

“Uh-huh. Well, as you’re aware, the more he has to go to court, the more often he’ll stop by the diner cause it’s across the street. But if you know nothing about it…” she shrugged. “Well, I’ll leave you to your exciting work. I’ve errands to run.” She slid from the car before he could respond.

???

Working at the Ellis Diner was not what she imagined when she graduated from culinary school at Drexel University. There was the offer for a prep-cook position at The French Laundry that she rejected when Stanley suffered a stroke four years prior. When she was fourteen, her parents divorced, and her father had no one in town, so she returned. Her mom ranted and raved about her decision, but how could she leave her dad alone? So, she was not on her way to a prestigious James Beard award, but she wasn’t entirely unhappy. Since the Ellis Diner only served lunch, it meant that she was off work every day by three which left her plenty of time to check in on her dad, making sure the staff at the care facility did their job. They didn’t always do so correctly. And she had a great group of friends who had become family. Then there was Weasel or Detective Harlan Anderson, as she’d recently learned. The former wild child turned police officer, then detective, who had her puzzled.

Rebecca tossed her purse and jacket into the locker in the employee break room when her phone buzzed. A text from Weasel.A little early for work.

She rolled her eyes and typed.Some days need more prep work. Are you stalking me?

She pulled up her hair in a vain attempt to wrangle the mess into a bun.

He responded with the emoji with its tongue sticking out.Do you have coffee done?

She dropped her hair and answered.Just about to make some. Come in the rear door. I’m trying to fix my hair.

She slid the phone into her pocket and returned to corralling the curly hair from hell. Soon the staff door opened. “I’m in here,” she called.

Weasel appeared at the doorway wearing his standard work attire of a collared polo style shirt and khaki pants. Today, he’d clipped the badge to his utility belt in front of his gun; the other side contained handcuffs, a radio, and an extra clip. He said nothing but watched her while she pinned her hair into a giant bun. It was a health department requirement to put it up for work. For life, she had to keep it long to weigh the curls down, otherwise short hair made her look like a poodle.

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