Page 18 of Tattered and Torn

“Of course not,” I say, gloating at Anderson as he scowls at us, then walks away. I turn to her and notice her cheeks are flushed. “What did he say to you?”

She shakes her head. “It’s not worth mentioning. I do need to grab a few things from the kitchen and take them upstairs to my apartment. Do you mind walking me up?”

“Nah, I don’t mind.”

Before she can take a step, a familiar face appears. Sheriff Nelson is dressed in his uniform, hat on his head, gun in his hip holster.

He walks right up to us and tips his hat. “Hey, Burke. How’s it going?”

I nod in return. “Fine, sheriff.” Nelson looks pointedly at Gabrielle, reminding me of my manners. “Sheriff, this is Gabrielle Hunter. She’s the new kitchen manager here at the lodge.”

Nelson tips his hat to her. “So I heard from Ruth this afternoon. Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

“Don’t call her that,” I say. “She doesn’t like it.”

“Sorry.” Nelson grins at her. “Nice to meet you, Gabrielle.”

She returns his smile. “It’s my pleasure, sheriff.”

“Please, call me Chris,” he says.

Great. She’s on a first name basis already with the town’s golden boy. I clear my throat in an attempt to redirect his attention away from Gabrielle. They’re about the same age—late twenties—and Nelson is a damn good-looking man with his thick blond hair and blue eyes. He’s also single. And as far as I know, he likes girls. “So, what brings you here, sheriff?” The sooner he leaves, the better.

Nelson’s grin widens. “I heard there was fettuccini Alfredo tonight. Am I too late?”

Chapter 7 – Gabrielle

Apparently, word travels fast in Bryce, Colorado, especially when a homecooked meal is involved. “I believe there’s plenty more pasta available. Have a seat, and I’ll get you some.” I grab a menu and lead the sheriff to a table for four in the center of the room.

He sits, then takes off his hat and sets it on the chair catty-corner to his. Then he runs his fingers through his shock of thick blond hair.

Wow. Bryce, Colorado seems to have no shortage of handsome men.

“What can I get you to drink?” I ask.

“I’ll take a Coke if you have one. I’d rather have a beer, but as you can see,” he points to the shiny gold badge pinned to his shirt, “I’m on duty. Just thought I’d stop by and take a dinner break. I heard the new chef arrived this morning. You didn’t waste any time gettin’ to work, did you?”

“Well, there are a lot of hungry people here at the lodge.” I gesture toward the kitchen. “I’ll get your food right out to you.”

I glance back at John. “Just a second. Let me get the sheriff his food, and then we can go.”

I head into the kitchen, where Betty and Nelle are starting to clean up from the dinner rush. “Please tell me there’s more of the Alfredo left. I promised some to the sheriff.”

Betty laughs. “Yes, there is.” She points to a covered pan on the stove. “Certainly enough for one person, maybe two.”

I dish up a heaping portion of pasta along with slices of grilled chicken and garlic bread. I guess it can’t hurt to get on the sheriff’s good side from the get-go. When I return to the dining room, I find John waiting, standing by the host podium, watching me. After I set the food in front of the sheriff, I go get his soft drink. When I return, he’s already made a good dent in the food.

“This is fantastic,” he says, pausing to wipe his mouth on a napkin. “Really good.”

“I’m glad you like it. Do you think you’ll save room for dessert? This evening we’ve got blackberry cobbler a la mode and brownies.”

His blue eyes widen, making him appear even younger. “Wow, that’s going to be hard to choose. Can I have both?”

I laugh. “Of course. I’ll go ahead and get your desserts now, as I’m getting ready to take off. I still have so much yet to do this evening.”

He nods. “I imagine so. Hannah and Killian are lucky to have you. I’ve heard a lot about the restaurant where you worked in Chicago—some fancy five-star Italian place. I can’t wait to see what you do with this place. Jennie’s Diner is fantastic, of course, but it’s nice to have another option.”

After I bring him his desserts, he offers me his credit card. “That’s okay,” I say. “It’s on the house.”

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