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“Have you made up your mind?” She plastered a smile on her lips. The impact of his gaze made her heart stumble a little.
“Who’s cooking?” he asked.
“Uh…Wade is. Why?” Then she remembered she was supposed to be keeping her distance, not treating him like she knew him well or as if he knew this place nearly as well as she did. She cleared her throat to get herself on track. “All our items are made by our cook staff to the same recipes.” She’d been striving for consistency but hadn’t quite made it yet.
“Then I’ll take a bowl of the stew with an extra biscuit.”
She scribbled on the notepad, fairly certain she’d never be able to read her handwriting. Thankfully, she wouldn’t have to. “The special comes with the cake. Would you like that, too?”
“Yeah.” He leaned forward on the counter, putting the menu behind the napkin holder, and Tara had to force herself to not step back.
“’Course, if you were cooking…” He paused for a long minute until she looked at him. “I’d take something…hotter.”
His voice was deep and gravelly, yet soft—and she was almost sure he wasn’t talking about food. She stared at him, met the heat in his stare, then finally looked away. She stepped backward.
“I can make you whatever you’d like.” Why was she giving him special treatment? She wouldn’t do that for anyone else, would she?
No, she was just giving good customer service, she assured herself.
Their gazes clashed again, and the world telescoped in to just them. Just him. Right there…inches away.
Tara turned away and was surprised, and shocked, when his rough hand closed gently around her wrist.
“What do you want?” Was he talking about food again? She took a step away, and he let her go.
“We can’t have this conversation.”
He was silent as if figuring out what to say next. “I’m sorry, Tara. I don’t know what else to say.”
“And I accept your apology. There’s nothing else to say, you’re right.” Tara turned toward the kitchen. “I’ll, uh, get started on your order.”
“I’m sorry if my being here bothers you.” He sounded disappointed. Sad. His voice slid over her nerve endings.
“It doesn’t,” she lied, because it did. It bothered her that he was the first man who’d attracted her in months, the first person who’d seemed to understand her in ages—if ever. And that attraction was returned. She knew it. He’d admitted it. He’d kissed her, for heaven’s sake.
He, however, had commitments that she wasn’t willing to ignore.
But the way he made her feel—like she was more alive, and warm, the sense of mattering to someone—made her want to—oh, how she wanted to…
Tara scurried into the kitchen. Leaning against the doorframe, trying to catch her breath, she prayed her heart would stop pounding.
Shoving her muddled thoughts aside, she headed to the stove. She’d start the order. The sooner she fed Morgan, the sooner he’d go away and leave her in peace.
Wade came in the back door just then, and she breathed a sigh of relief. She gave him the order. Now she was the one needing the break. The coolness outside beckoned, and she stepped through the back door.
* * *
MORGAN KNEW TARA was trying to ignore him. Not that he blamed her. She didn’t return from the kitchen until his order was ready to deliver.
Two young men had come in while she was in the kitchen. They’d seated themselves at a booth near one end of the counter. Laughing and joking, they reminded Morgan of how he and Jack used to be. Back before they’d had to grow up.
Tara silently put Morgan’s plate in front of him, then headed to the men’s table, a coffeepot in one hand, her order pad in the other. Morgan knew better than to try to resist watching her. The entire restaurant was reflected in the chrome above his head. What the hell? He’d enjoy what he could.
“What can I get you, gentlemen?” She set the coffeepot on the table and pulled the pencil from her falling-down ponytail.
“Well, well, well.” One man leaned forward. “How ’bout you sit down and keep us company, pretty lady?”
