Last Chance At The Someday Café. Angel Smits
her, making her look nothing like the pictures he had of her. Would he even recognize her?
Was he ever going to find them?
He grabbed a soda from a street vendor and settled under a big cottonwood tree in the center of the park. Maybe if he sat here and watched he’d see something.
The sun moved slowly across the sky, and he fought the growing disappointment. Other than going door-to-door, what was he supposed to do? He glanced wistfully at the playground. Had Brooke ever played there? She’d always loved to swing.
If he hung out here, would he find her or just get himself arrested for stalking little kids? As a dad, he knew he’d be suspicious of some guy hanging out at a playground.
A woman came down the sidewalk, a big bag hanging off her shoulder, the sun glinting in her bright golden hair. The curls rippled in the breeze as she walked, and he couldn’t tear his gaze away. She turned around, and for an instant, a flash of recognition shot through him. He didn’t know her, but she looked familiar. Where had he seen her before?
At the diner this morning. With her hair down, she looked different. She’d come and gone so quickly, he was surprised he recognized her now.
What had the waitress said her name was? Tina? No. Trudy? No, definitely not. Tara? That was it.
He watched her move. She went from booth to booth, looking at the items displayed, and, after she’d picked up something small and paid, she handed the clerk a piece of paper. A flyer? What was she doing? She moved easily through the crowd, passing out the flyers from her bag and sharing a smile with nearly everyone. Good advertising. He hoped it worked.
Just then, she looked at him. Their gazes met, held for an instant, then she looked away. Did she recognize him, too?
Something about the woman intrigued him. Rising, he followed her, her interactions amusing him. How long had the waitress said the restaurant had been open? A week? Before opening, had Tara been doing this? If she’d been running around glad-handing for the past month, especially during the busy weekends, had she seen Sylvie? Had she seen Brooke? His heart sped up, and so did he.
* * *
EVERY DAY, ESPECIALLY on the busy weekends and hopefully between the morning rush and lunch—before the day grew too unbearably hot—Tara planned to visit the street fair that was a staple in town.
Tara loved the fair and could easily spend the entire day shopping, as she had in years past with her sisters. Artists, jewelers, seamstresses and food vendors of all kinds sold their goods. But her purpose now was to advertise the café, not spend her meager profits.
She’d printed flyers with coupons and handed them out to the vendors and anyone who’d take one. It was working—already her staff said people had brought the flyers in.
Today was no different, and she made her way down the street, taking her time and doing a little shopping along the way.
She noticed that the hunk from the diner this morning was sitting under the cottonwoods in the park. Those broad shoulders made the massive trunk of the old tree actually look small. One leg stretched out across the grass, and he’d bent one knee to rest his forearm on. The soda can looked minuscule in his big hand.
He looked up then, catching her watching him. She glanced away, feeling her cheeks warm. She moved on to the next stall.
Visitors and locals mingled in the square, and it was the perfect place to spread the word about her café. She’d actually toyed with the idea of renting one of the outdoor booths to give away food samples.
But she couldn’t afford to be away from the café for the entire day, and neither could any of the staff. Not yet anyway.
Maybe she should give Mr. Hunk a coupon to get him to return. That would make her staff—especially Wendy—happy. And that was the only reason it crossed her mind, she told herself.
Really.
Glancing over at the trees, she realized he’d left and before she could stop herself, she scanned around, wondering where he’d gone. She didn’t see him. Why did that realization dim the bright day? Shaking her head, she dismissed the man and her silly thoughts.
“Hey, Dave,” she greeted the older man who made beautiful tin sculptures. She’d already commissioned one of a squirrel in a chef hat to go in the entry of the diner. “How’s Mr. Squirrel coming?”
“Looking good. I’ll be done early, I think.”
“Great.” He’d already sent business her way, and she left another stack of flyers.
With similar interactions, she moved along the line, realizing how many of these people she’d come to know and now considered friends.
Halfway down the block, she stopped at the T-shirt vendor and recalled the woman who’d come in to apply for a waitress job, the one who’d insulted her, unintentionally, but the woman’s rudeness still stuck in Tara’s mind. Relieved the woman wasn’t there, she was glad to find a man behind the wide table.
She didn’t remember seeing him before. Was folding something people who sold T-shirts did in their sleep? They always seemed to be doing it.
“Hello,” she greeted him with a smile. He looked up, but rather than smiling, he frowned, then seemed to force his lips into a stiff grin.
“Hi!” She tried again. He kept folding.
“Let me know if there’s anything you’d like me to ring up.” He moved to sit in a chair beside an ancient cash register. He picked up a magazine and focused on it, ignoring her.
“I’d like to introduce myself,” she said. He looked up and fake-smiled again.
“Yeah, I know who you are. You bought the diner from Daisy.”
“Yes, I did.”
“I ain’t giving out any of yer flyers,” he grumbled. “It’s hard enough makin’ a livin’ doing my own business.” He went back to his magazine. “You wanna buy something?”
She stared at him, surprised. Not now, she didn’t. Everyone else was very open and helpful, friendly. What was wrong with this guy?
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” She wasn’t giving up. “I’m offering a discount. If nothing else, you and your family might enjoy coming by for a meal.” Did she really say that without gritting her teeth? She was fairly impressed with herself.
“No, thanks.”
“You haven’t even tried.”
“Lady makes a mean omelet,” another voice said beside her, and Tara turned to see The Hunk standing there, pawing at T-shirts. He wasn’t even looking at the T-shirts he was unfolding. He was looking at her instead. And smiling. Another T-shirt returned to the pile, rumpled and unviewed.
“You want to buy something?” The man behind the counter looked up from the magazine only long enough to glare at the growing pile of messy shirts.
“Not sure yet.” Hunk continued to smile, his expression more mischief than mirth. “I’ll let you know.”
She couldn’t ignore him. He’d complimented her, for one thing. “Glad you enjoyed your meal. I hope you’ll return.”
“Plan to.” He faced her, leaving the T-shirts for the other man to refold. “I’m Morgan Thane.” He stuck out a hand, a beefy hand that matched the rest of him, muscular, strong and intimidating. A total contradiction to the smile on his face and the curiosity in his eyes. “My truck is parked in your back lot. Hope that’s okay.”
She took a step away, reluctant to touch him. “Tara Hawkins.” She didn’t want to be rude, so she finally took his hand, feeling her fingers engulfed but thankfully not crushed. His palm was rough and warm.
Wendy was right. His eyes were green—a deep, dark green. Like the underside of those cottonwood leaves