laughed. “It’s just her way. Deep inside she’s got a heart of gold. I’m pretty sure anyway.” He hopped off his stool and offered her a hand. “I’m Tom. I’m the lone vet on the island.”
She shook it and answered his smile. It was nice to feel a little welcomed. “I’m Gabby. Nice to meet you.”
“What brings you to Hawk Island?”
“She wants to expose Jamie to horrible ridicule and humiliation,” Zhanna stated, her order pad in her hand as she practically pushed herself between Tom and Gabby. “You don’t want anything to do with this one, Tom. I’m fairly certain she kills little animals for fun.”
Gabby’s jaw dropped. “I do not.”
Tom chuckled. “Don’t let Zhanna get to you. She’s all bark, Gabby. Good luck with whatever.”
“Do you want to get pie from me or not, Mr. Tom?”
His eyes twinkled. “Honey, I always want pie from you.”
“Oh, hush now. Go sit on stool and I’ll fix you something hearty. You are always too skinny.”
Tom wandered to the counter and Zhanna’s eyes stayed with him for a minute longer than was natural. Then, as if shaking herself out of a trance, she focused on Gabby.
“Now you. What do you want?”
“A salad. With the dressing on the—”
“Got it.” Zhanna walked away before Gabby could finish speaking.
Digging into her purse Gabby pulled out a pen and pad and started writing. One of the keys to weight loss she read was to document everything she ate in a day plus her amount of exercise.
Dry toast again this morning. Extensive jogging for five minutes. Salad with dressing on the side…
Zhanna plunked a plate in front of her. It sounded much too heavy for salad. It smelled way better, too.
“You did say hamburger and fries, didn’t you?”
“No.” Gabby looked at the plate of food and nearly wanted to cry. A large patty with cheese drooping down the side mocked her. Lettuce and tomato were merely camouflage. The big soft bun was made out of white flour instead of whole wheat. Not fair.
She stared at it and tried to ignore the rest of the plate which was teaming with crisp golden French fries.
She was starving. It smelled delicious. These women were evil.
The door to the café opened and Gabby glanced up to see Jamison enter. Zhanna turned and gave him a silly half smile.
He walked to her and clucked a finger beneath her chin in greeting. “Hello, brat.”
“Hello, my favorite customer.” The tone was sarcastic but friendly. These two knew each other well. Not a surprise given Zhanna’s loyalty to him. Once again thoughts of how Jamison might have seduced the young woman filtered through Gabby’s mind. But watching them, she did have to admit there were no sexual sparks between them. More like easy friendship.
“Gabriella.”
“Jamison.” Great. The one person who knew she could barely run for ten minutes spotted her behind a plate of artery-clogging—and very delicious-smelling—food. She felt her cheeks flame up and she blurted, “I didn’t order this.”
He laughed. “Then why did Zhanna bring it to you?”
Gabby figured ratting out his friend probably wasn’t a smart idea.
“Ah, I see,” he said, grasping the situation. “And what did you order?”
“A salad with dressing on the side. I ordered it…on the side.”
He nodded. Then gave Zhanna a slightly disapproving glare. “Having a little fun with the new person in town?”
“She wants to write about you,” Zhanna said sulkily.
“I know. How was the burger done?”
“Medium.”
Jamison lifted the plate and set it on the table in the empty booth behind her. “Bring her the salad, Zee.”
“Oy. Always the forgiving one.” With a huff she went into the kitchen.
Gabby could feel him settle down directly behind her. He wasted no time digging into her burger.
“Thank you.”
Around a mouthful of meat, he mumbled she was welcome.
“You should know if you hadn’t come in I probably would have eaten it. I don’t have much willpower.”
He didn’t comment.
She wasn’t sure why she felt the need to confess to him, but it was important she not seem hypocritical. At least with herself. She wasn’t perfect. There was no point pretending she was. If he knew that about her, it might make it easier for him to trust her.
Adel emerged from the kitchen a minute later. The salad was big and brimming with vegetables. The dressing was in a cup on the side.
“Thank you.”
“Yeah.”
It seemed her relationship with Jamison’s dog was the best one Gabby had cultivated so far.
The café remained empty except for the two of them in the booths and Tom at the counter who was definitely taking a very long time to chose his meal. Despite the impatient way she’d treated Gabby, Zhanna did not seem to mind his indecisiveness.
As Gabby picked through lettuce, cucumbers and tomatoes she could hear Jamison’s fork hitting the plate and imagined him diving into those decadent fries. It seemed awkward to have him behind her. But he hadn’t asked to join her and she didn’t want him to think if she invited him, she was doing so only to get information from him.
She wasn’t out for the story tonight. A little company, however, would be nice.
Picking up her plate and dressing, she moved booths and sat across from him before he could object. He raised his eyebrows to let her know she’d been a bit daring, but before he could speak she did.
“Relax, I’m not going to grill you for facts about your life.”
“I wouldn’t give them to you if you did.”
She ignored that. “It seems stupid the two of us eating alone.”
“I eat alone most nights.”
So did she. Most meals in fact. She preferred it that way. Or at least she thought she did. It had been the idea of him being there, only a foot away from her, but still separate that had bothered her. Two days of trespassing, two days of being left in his dust, yet Gabby was beginning to feel a connection. Sort of.
“Can’t we have a normal conversation?”
“We could. If you were a normal woman and not a writer. But then, if you were a normal woman, this might be a date and we both know you wouldn’t consent to that.”
Just the word date made her nervous. “It can’t be a date if neither person asked the other to be with them.”
“Right. You didn’t ask. You barged. Kind of like you did when you came to my house, then again on my beach. You know you what you are,” he said shaking a fry in her direction. “You’re a barger.”
“That’s not a word. But I have a solution. Tonight I’m not a writer or a date. Let’s call me a tourist.”
“And what am I?”
“You’re the local. You tell me what it’s like to live on an island.”
He pulled another fry from the pile and chewed while he contemplated her suggestion. Because she’d already told him she was weak-willed, she didn’t