Boy Issues - Morticia Knight Page 0,11
lips together. Donovan swallowed down his anxiety. His thoughts became a jumble of second-guessing and frantically trying to recall why he’d decided this was a good idea.
“Hiya, gettin’ something to go? We’re closing soon.”
Donovan tore his gaze from the reason for his rash move then regarded the whisky voiced woman who’d addressed him. She was somewhere between the age of forty and sixty—her leathery, wrinkled skin an homage to the searing rays of sun that blessed Southern California almost three hundred and sixty-five days of the year.
Donovan pasted on his practiced smile again. “I thought I’d grab a quick cup of coffee.” His gaze darted to Silver. “I don’t plan on staying long.”
She rolled her eyes. “Sure. Just don’t touch any of the settings.” Then off she went.
This time, when he glanced Silver’s way, Silver gave him a lopsided smirk. Donovan chuckled to himself, and when he smiled back at Silver, all the pretense had dropped.
Donovan chose a booth near the front that didn’t have duct tape leaving a sticky residue on the cracked vinyl, but also one where he could take a peek at Silver now and again.
“Here ya go.” The waitress turned up the coffee mug that he hadn’t been paying any attention to, then poured from the glass pot. “Take it black?”
She dared him with her eyes to ask for creamer. He didn’t take his coffee black, but then again, he didn’t give a shit about the crappy brew anyway.
“Yes, this will be fine. Thank you.”
She grunted, then slapped down a paper check on the table. “I can take that now for you if you’d like, or if you’ve got exact change, just leave it.”
Donovan reached for his wallet, then paused. He never carried cash. Donovan wondered if the diner accepted Platinum American Express, and what sort of menacing glares he’d receive in return if he asked.
“That’s all right, Marge. I’ve got it.”
Donovan jerked up his head at the sound of Silver’s voice, his cheeks flushing hot. Silver’s kitchen co-worker was laughing as he continued whatever task he was doing, his head bowed and shoulders shaking. Silver never looked Donovan’s way, but instead went back to his own task.
Marge snatched up the ticket. “Looks like you’ve got an admirer.”
She shuffled away and Donovan was left to process what had just happened. Silver’s gesture had to mean the third time really was the charm, right? His stomach tightened in anticipation.
Donovan absent-mindedly took a sip from the chipped mug, then almost spit it out, barely stopping himself in time before he spewed the nasty shit all over Marge’s precious place settings. Donovan set down the cup then pushed it away. What he needed now was a mint. A very strong mint.
As Donovan pretended he wasn’t tracking Silver’s movements, the minutes dragged on. He also ignored the side eye Marge kept giving him, as if Donovan’s presence in the diner was a blight on the good name of restaurants everywhere.
Donovan glanced up at the sound of someone loudly clearing their throat and locked eyes with Silver. He was still on the cooking line, but jerked his head toward the parking area. Donovan gave him a silent nod then rose. After smoothing down his shirt, he strolled to the front, marveling at how unsettled he remained.
“Good night.”
He gave Marge a perfunctory smile as he made his way past her and she didn’t bother to look up from whatever it was she was doing. Donovan wondered if she had been this salty her whole life, or if working at the shitty diner had sucked the soul right out of her. If he was in Vegas, he’d put all his chips on the diner.
When Donovan reached his Benz, he leaned against it, much the same way as he’d done the night before with the Corvette. Maybe he was becoming a parody of himself or maybe Silver was mocking him. Donovan crossed his arms and pretended he was filled with as much hubris as he’d been the past two times he’d interacted with the young hunk.
After the last of the patrons had exited the front, the lights went out like a wave inside the dining area. Only one dim glow remaining that partially illuminated the counter. A door at the far side of the building opened, and out poured Marge, the cook who’d been working with Silver and a young guy, probably a teen, who Donovan hadn’t noticed. Who he didn’t see was Silver.
If Silver’s Mustang wasn’t right next to him, he’d be worried