tell him she was pregnant. That was sure to douse whatever spark had ignited between them but quick.
Only she was hoping it wouldn’t …
3
MACE CLEANED UP after the last of the customers, then fed change into the vintage jukebox that had remained pretty much silent all night, selecting a few ‘50s classics before sitting back down at the counter. He glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes had passed since Geneva had said she’d be right there. He’d noticed an employees’ locker room off the kitchen and guessed she’d taken advantage of it. He realized he was still wearing the borrowed apron and took it off, laying it on the stool next to him.
The past few hours had passed in a welcome flurry of activity. The best decision he’d made was to trade his night of motel sitting for lending a hand at the busy diner. He’d never done very well left with too much time on his hands. And even he could jog only so long before his muscles protested.
Bussing tables and doing dishes and occasionally filling coffee cups had given him something productive to do. And feeling like a part of a team hadn’t hurt.
If Geneva’s gratefully surprised and sinfully sexy smile every now and again had anything to do with his sense of satisfaction, he wasn’t copping to it.
“Sorry,” she said, finally coming out of the kitchen. “I just wanted to finish a few things up.”
He blinked. She still wore the same gray uniform and ruffled white apron, but she looked … different somehow. Refreshed. And hotter than hell.
She put down something in a bag and then moved to the pie case while he rounded the other side of the counter.
“Coffee?” he asked, holding up a pot.
“I’d love a cup of decaf.”
“One decaf coming up.”
He poured two cups and placed them on the counter while she took not one, but four different pie plates out of the display case. Each held at least two pieces. She reached into the fridge and pulled out a can of whipped cream, placing it next to them.
He sat down and she took the stool beside him.
He was abnormally taken with the can of whipped cream; the thought of licking a line of it off her skin from collarbone to toes, stopping for longer stays along the way that seemed particularly tempting.
He wondered what she’d say if he suggested it …
“I figured since you wouldn’t let Trudy pay you, you’re entitled to as much pie as you want.” She handed him a fork.
“Part of the deal was that you join me.”
She held up her own fork.
He chuckled, watching as she dug into what he guessed was the chocolate marshmallow one. Damn, but she had a sexy mouth. What made it even sexier still was that she didn’t appear the least bit aware of the effect she was having on him.
“So, tell me,” she said around a bite, “are you from around these parts, soldier?”
He chose the blueberry. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”
“Dubious answer to a yes or no question.”
To his surprise, he found himself explaining his being a military brat and staying with his grandfather as a teen. Even more surprising was the casual way in which he did so. He wasn’t usually given to sharing information with anyone. But she made it easy, her face open, her interest unselfish.
There was something strangely … intimate about sitting, just the two of them, in an empty retro diner, ‘50s music playing on a jukebox, the street beyond the front windows quiet and dark.
Even as they talked, he watched her eat, something he found strangely erotic. He couldn’t remember enjoying watching a woman eat. Then again, he could barely recall a woman eating in his presence, unless she was a colleague or a friend.
But watching Geneva savor the blueberry pie didn’t qualify as either.
“Which branch?” she asked after he’d fallen silent for a moment, reflecting on what he’d said; reflecting on her.
“What?”
“Which branch did you choose?”
“Marines.”
“Same as your father?”
He paused. “No.”
Curious, he’d forgotten having chosen a different path than his parent.
Funny how things worked out.
“I can relate.” She got up. “I could go for a glass of milk. How about you?”
Surprisingly, the idea appealed to him. “Sure.”
She poured them two large glasses then sat down again.
“I take it that means you’re from around here in a manner of speaking, as well?” he asked.
She nodded, then licked a milk mustache from her upper lip. Mace felt his pants tighten at the innocent move.
“I followed … someone here five years ago. I’ve been looking for a way out ever since.”
“He still around?”
She smiled. “Who said it was a guy?”
“I did.”
Her smile widened. “No, he was history two months in.”
For reasons he couldn’t be sure of, he was glad that not only was the guy part of her past, but she didn’t seem to have a problem with leaving him there. “Where are you from originally?”
“Ohio. Toledo. Whipped cream?”
She shook the can and then held it above the pies.
Mace felt the urge to reposition the tip above her lips so he might kiss it from them.
“Sure,” he said instead.
“Tell me when …”
She began spraying …
And spraying …
Covering what remained in all of the pie pans.
“When?” she asked.
“Huh?”
She stopped spraying and laughed. The sound was deep and husky … and made him want to kiss her all the more.
“I was waiting for you tell me when.”
He chuckled and switched his attention to the cherry pie, taking an extra-big bite to assuage the growing desire to run his fingers up her knee, which was left nicely bare by her skirt.
“So tell me about the other guy,” he said.
She held a hand under her cream-dripping fork as she moved it toward his mouth. “What guy?”
He began to refuse the bite of chocolate marshmallow pie, or rather her offering of it, then did the opposite by opening his mouth instead.
“The one at the counter panting after you all night,” he said with his mouth half full.
“Dustin? Dustin doesn’t pant. He moons.” The smile eased from her face and she suddenly avoided his gaze.
Then she appeared to make her mind up about something and her expression opened up again.
She brushed her hands together then went to the register, taking out a handful of change. The jukebox had gone silent while they talked.
“Any requests?”
“B-17.”
She laughed.
He liked that she got the reference.
“Who