I’d like to take you to the movies, but they don’t let you bring in your own snacks.
—SARAH M.
“Seriously, Kyle,” Amanda said. “They’re your kids. Carson’s growing like a weed. He needs new shoes, and I can’t do this without—”
It was Friday night and I’d just popped into the changing room at Chicky’s for a quick fifteen-minute break. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop but, besides Amanda, I was the only other person here and it was not a big room.
“I hate him,” Amanda growled and tossed her phone on the counter next to me. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears.
“Ex-husband?”
“What did I ever see in him?” She grabbed a tissue and carefully dabbed under her eyes. “He quit his job. Said he was just working to pay for child support so why bother. Meanwhile, I’m working two jobs just to pay the rent and keep the lights on.”
“I wish I could help in some way.” And I meant it; Amanda was good people.
“Maybe some poor drunk soul will get sloppy and give me a five-hundred-dollar tip.” With a tired chuckle, she pushed off the counter and pasted on a smile before walking out the door.
Another name to add to my list of Reasons to Avoid Men At All Costs. It included: my father, Peter, Ali’s ex-boyfriend, and now Amanda’s deadbeat ex-husband.
I’d just finished calling Mama to check on her when Amanda returned. “There you are. That guy from last week is back.”
I stared at her in horror. “The guy I spilled the food on?”
“No.” She hopped on the tips of her high-heeled boots. “The hot one. The football player. What is his dang name?”
“Oh.” My relief was short-lived. “Wait. He’s here?”
“Yup,” She smiled broadly, flashing straight white teeth and a single dimple. “He asked specifically for you. He’s at the bar.”
What could he possibly want? If he was here to make fun of me, he had another thing coming. I didn’t have the time or patience for games. He’d have to understand not all of us were sports heroes with fat paychecks and no problems.
I’d gotten myself good and riled up by the time I spotted him at the bar. He was laughing at something Kara, the bartender, was saying to him. With a giggle, she leaned over the counter (conveniently giving him a very good view of her cleavage) and playfully smacked him on the shoulder.
I had a momentary desire to rip that arm off Kara’s body and throw it in the nearest meat grinder. Which was ridiculous. I liked Kara. She was funny and smart (currently in her second year of law school). If she wanted to flirt with Chris, she could have him. I did not care a whit. I was whit-less, indeed.
Witless was more like it.
How had my life gotten so weird? Here I was, marching across a crowded restaurant dressed as a show extra for The Dukes of Hazzard to a real-life football god.
When I was about ten feet away, Chris turned and saw me. His smile widened and, for a split second, I faltered under the full wattage of it. A powerful weapon, that thing was. Not to mention the rest of the package wrapped in faded jeans and a t-shirt, baseball cap firmly in place. The whole slightly scruffy, casual clothes thing worked for him.
It was sure working on Kara.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
Chris’s smiled dimmed a little; two little tick marks appeared between his brows. “Is this a bad time?”
“I am at work.”
“Sorry. I need to ask you a question.”
“And you have to do it right now?”
“Yes,” he said, his voice earnest. “Well, no, not exactly, but it seemed like I should do it immediately.”
“What could possibly be this important?”
“I won’t take much of your time. After our lunch the other day…”
From the corner of my eye, I saw Kara’s curious gaze move back and forth between us.
“Wait. You have to at least order something.” I pulled my order pad from the tiny apron we all had to wear.
“Fine.” He picked up the menu next to him. “What’s good here?”
“Nothing,” Kara and I said at the same time.
“Is a burger safe?” he asked.
“What do you consider safe? Will it kill you? It’s unlikely. If you’re asking if it’s really beef? I’m legally not allowed to answer that question as per my employment agreement.” I clicked my pen. “With or without cheese?”
“Why don’t I put this in for you?” Kara glanced back and forth between Chris and me like she was at a particularly vicious game of pickleball. “You two can talk.”
After she left, I rounded the bar and stood across from Chris. Mainly to look busy in case Shane came out of his office and wanted to get yell-y. About five seats over, an older guy with a bad combover was bellied up to the bar and staring at the baseball game.
“So, what’s this very important question?” I found a towel under the bar and started wiping at the space between us.
Chris straightened, his expression earnest in that Eagle Scout way he had about him. “What happened to your mom?”
I threw down the rag. “No offense, but first, it’s none of your business and second, why do you care?”
“We’re friends and, well, it’s for a good reason. Just trust me. Please?” His eyes were all warm and soft and so sincere.
I crossed my arms. “She had a stroke about eight months ago.”
“I’m sorry. That must have been terrifying.”
“Yeah, it was. But she’s doing better now. She’s in therapy and getting stronger every day.”
“I bet therapy is expensive.”
I picked up the towel and began wiping down the very dry bar again. “We’re doing okay.”
“That’s why you have the second job. Medical bills.” It wasn’t a question.
He watched me closely like he was waiting for some kind of reaction. Was he expecting me to break down into tears and confess how horrible life was? ’Cause that was not happening.
I stared right back. “Like I said, we’re fine.”
He opened his mouth to say something else, but Bad Combover started waving his hand. I marched down to him, glad for the reprieve.
I stole a glance at Chris as I refilled the guy’s glass. He was bent over the bar a little, spinning his mostly empty glass absently, his profile displaying the strong line of his jaw that I knew softened when he smiled. Which he was not doing now.
In fact, now that I took a moment to study him, he had all the earmarks of a man in trouble. Hunched shoulders, tired eyes, grim expression.
I wandered back to him. “What’s wrong with you?”
His eyebrows jumped in surprise, then he sighed. “I need your help.”
“My help?”
“Did you hear about the Vegas thing?” he asked, and I swear he started to blush.
I nodded.
“I know it looks bad but it’s not true, the things they’re saying.”
It wasn’t my job to act as a lie detector. “It isn’t my business. We barely know each other.”
He frowned. “Well, then this will be awkward.”
“What’s that?”
“I have an idea,” he said slowly. “A proposition.”
“Proposition? Again, with the bad pickup lines?” I looked down my nose at him. “You can’t afford me.”
His mouth tipped up in a small smile. “Proposition might not be the best word. Maebell Sampson, would you do me the great honor of agreeing to be my wife?”
