Part 14 (1/2)

In less than ten minutes, they were parked next to an old railroad dining car that had been put up on a foundation. Inside, there was a long, Formica counter with stools bolted to the floor and a soda fountain set up behind it. Red Naugahyde booths took up the other side of the car and stretched out into a back room that had been added on. The place had a well-used air and he had a feeling that the 1950s decor wasn't cultivated, it was authentic. The thing had probably been at the side of the road since sock hops and ducktails were in.

People looked them over and waved at Frankie. She was careful to introduce him as her new chef to every single person they talked to, setting the boundaries like a brick layer. He wasn't sure whether the message was for his benefit or the townspeople's-probably both. When they finally sat down at a booth way in the rear of the addition, he wasn't surprised when she put her back to the door.

Cherry tomato? His ego was going to fit on a pinhead with room to spare.

Before the waitress even filled their water gla.s.ses, Frankie said, ”So. What do you think we should do?”

”Order dinner. Eat.” Go dancing, he thought, eyeing the way her collarbones looked framed by the wide neckline of her s.h.i.+rt.

This is not a date, he reminded himself.

Yeah, says who, his libido shot back.

Nate rubbed his eyes. Oh, goody. He could kiss mental health goodbye now, too.

Frankie accepted a laminated menu with a smile. ”I mean about us working together.”

He flipped open his menu and was delighted to see pictures of the entrees. And the food was right out of the Sat.u.r.day Evening Post. Meat loaf. Chicken potpie. Turkey blue plate special that came with mashed potatoes and wax beans. As if it could possibly have included anything else?

He felt her eyes on him and liked it, so he leisurely perused the selections.

”What are you going to have?” he asked.

”A nervous breakdown,” she muttered and opened her menu.

So we'll tell the waitress to make that a double, he thought.

”I should never have agreed to this.” Her eyes were scanning up and down and he doubted she was seeing anything.

”Now why's that?” he drawled. And when she was finished, he could share his own list of regrets. Starting with the fact that he was getting turned on just by watching her lovely fingers flip the menu pages over.

”This just feels all wrong. And so does being around you in the kitchen. I can't decide whether you're ignoring me because you're busy or because you're still mad. And I tell myself I shouldn't care, but I do.” She pulled the s.h.i.+rt back so its neckline was higher. Pity. ”And if you are angry, I don't really blame you, but I can't think of much more I can do in terms of apologizing.”

Unfortunately, he could think of quite a number of things. Most of which involved his mouth and unfettered access to her body.

Why don't you lean forward and put your hand on her knee, his libido suggested. You could inch that skirt up until you- Shut up. d.a.m.n, his s.e.x drive- ”Excuse me?”

Nate realized he'd spoken aloud. G.o.d, he hoped like h.e.l.l he'd stopped at the shut up part. ”Nothing. I, ah-”

The waitress came back. Thank G.o.d.

”We'd like a bottle of wine,” he said. As well as a cold pack for his erection.

”White or red?” the woman asked, whipping out her pad.

”Frankie?”

”Red's fine. No, white. Wait, red.” She put her hand on her forehead. ”Oh, I don't know.”

”We'll take one of each.” He smiled at the waitress and ordered the meat loaf.

”That's overkill,” Frankie said.

”Then pick one. And what would you like to eat?”

”I'll have the meat loaf, too. So red would be fine.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the door to the diner open and a tall man with two blond children come in. The three of them took seats at the counter. The youngest, a girl of about four, needed help from her father to get on the stool.

A st.u.r.dy shot of pain whipped through Nate's chest and he had to take a quick drink of water.

As he looked away from the kids, he hoped the ache would fade quickly. G.o.d, that yearning, that regret, was it ever going to go stop? Every child he saw triggered the sting. Especially the little girls.

And children were everywhere. He couldn't seem to get away from them, even at White Caps. Twice this week he'd had them invade his territory, coming into the kitchen looking for a snack or just out of curiosity.

”Nate?”

”Huh?”

”About us.”

Good. Distraction was good.

He leaned back as the waitress put a bottle of wine and a basket of rolls on the table. He offered both to Frankie, who only let him fill her gla.s.s.

”Honest truth?” he said. ”I'm not good at dealing with bosses to begin with and you've got some serious control issues. So I think we'll end up killing each other.”

”But I apologized.”

”And I appreciated it. Except that doesn't change much, does it?”

Her eyes flashed up to his. ”So why are we here tonight?”

Because evidently he had a penchant for self-torture. G.o.d, could she look better?

Salads were put down in front of them. He watched her pick up her fork and carefully shuffle the radish shavings off to the side.

”Tell me, what's your problem with bosses?” she asked.

He started eating. ”Same as everyone's. I don't like to be told what to do.”

”Even if they're right?”

”But if they're right, I already know it and don't need to be told. And if they're wrong, they're wasting my time.”

”That's pretty arrogant.”