One Foot in the Grave - Denise Grover Swank Page 0,11
all the chairs upside down on the table. Wyatt had begun mopping the floor while Marco and Max conferred about security in the back. Tiny had already cleaned up the kitchen and left.
I headed to the office with Tiny’s share of the tip money and rapped on the frame of the partially closed door.
“Max, it’s me. I have Tiny’s tip money.”
Marco opened the door, leaning over in his chair to do it—the office was that small—and Max nodded to me from behind his desk. Marco held out his hand, and I gave him the stack of money and receipts.
Max’s gaze leveled with mine. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said, feeling self-conscious. “But thank you for asking.”
“You want me to follow you home?” Marco asked, worry in his eyes.
“Goodness no. I’ll be fine.”
“If you change your mind…”
I gave him a warm smile. “I’ll be fine. See you tomorrow.”
Ruth was waiting for me by the back door, and she sent a glance toward the dining room as we headed out to the parking lot. “How do you feel about Wyatt workin’ here?”
“It worked out just fine tonight,” I said with a hint of attitude.
“Good thing he was here to save you.”
I put a hand on my hip. “For the record, I could have handled him. That guy was drunk off his ass. All I needed to do was sweep his feet out from under him. Wyatt just showed up before I had a chance.”
“Maybe so…” She gave me a speculative look as we entered the parking lot. “He still has feelings for you, Carly.”
“And that’s just too doggone bad,” I said. “Because that ship sailed right on out of the harbor and sunk on a sandbar.”
She cocked her head. “I don’t think you can sink a boat on a sandbar.”
I waved my hand. “You know what I mean.”
Pushing out a breath, she said, “And what about Marco workin’ here?”
“For the millionth time, we’re just friends.”
“Y’all looked like more than friends when you were touchin’ his face.”
I shrugged, both of us coming to a stop as we neared her car. “It’s like I told you. We got closer after he nursed me back to health.”
“You really expect me to buy that you came down with the flu at the exact time Lula came back? What really happened?”
She didn’t know the truth about Lula and the Drummonds, and it wasn’t my place to tell her. Nor did I intend to tell her that Bingham had helped me find Greta, Lula’s friend. He’d dispensed his own brand of justice on those men for the wrongs they’d done—and intended to do—to Lula, and I didn’t want to get on his bad side. “I had a really bad case of the flu, and Marco says I nearly died a few times. I don’t have insurance, so he took care of me at his place. I owe him, Ruth.”
Her eyes narrowed and she studied me closely for several long seconds. “I believe he nursed you back to health and even the nearly dyin’ part, but not for one minute do I believe it was the flu. Something happened to you when you were looking for Lula—like maybe you got shot—and Marco took care of you.”
I shrugged. Her presumption was close, but I didn’t care to confirm or deny it. “Go home to Franklin, Ruth.”
She winked. “I’m hornier than a mountain goat in heat, and if I don’t get me some, I’ll wither up and die.”
I winced. “I could do without the visual, but go on. What are you doin’ standing here talking to me? Go see your man.”
She laughed and hopped into her car as the back door opened. Wyatt walked out, scanning the parking lot, and his gaze landed on me.
Steeling my back, I walked over to him. He clearly had something on his mind, and if we were going to be working together, it would be best to get this conversation out of the way.
“Do you want me to follow you home?” he asked.
“That guy’s not gonna bother me,” I said. “He’s probably knocking at death’s door with alcohol poisoning.”
He lowered his voice. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said, forcing a smile. “Thank you for stepping in. I should have thanked you earlier.”
“If that guy had…”
“I’m fine,” I said, adjusting my purse strap. “He only pinned me to a wall.”
I could tell he wanted to say more, but he remained silent for a couple of seconds. “So you and Marco…” His gaze held mine.