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in that booth over there. Can you send someone over to take our order?” He speaks to her slowly, as if she’s a three-year-old, forcing me to cough into my elbow to hide my laugh. Politely, I smile and offer a small wave as we make our way to the booth. I don’t want her spitting in my drink.
    When we pass a couple servers, I notice the back of their shirts: Is that a gator in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me? I smile to myself, shaking my head. I’ve always been a sucker for a clever shirt.
    I love this place already.
    Deacon grabs the menus on the table and hands me one. “Order anything you want. It’s on the house.”
    “Are you showing off, trying to impress me, Deacon Landry?” I playfully accuse him.
    “Nope, that just happens naturally. If you must know, Dani Reed, I own this fine establishment.”
    “You own this place?”
    “Well, we own this place,” he says, smiling. “Me and my brother. You’ll meet him later. He’s working tonight.”
    I smile and nod as I take in the place, my wheels turning. I definitely need to find the time to come and take pictures of Pockets. Since it’s owned by the family, it should be in the article.
    The dark wood covering the floors and the booths immediately draws my attention. There’s a wide-open space up by a stage that appears to be set up for live music, but for now, the music is coming from an old jukebox next to the stage. Between the low lights and eclectic decor, this place is a diamond in the rough. It’s kind of a shame that it’s stuck way out here in French Settlement. A place like this would thrive in a bigger city like Baton Rouge or New Orleans.
    “You know what you want to eat?” Deacon asks, interrupting my thoughts.
    “Oh, sorry. I kinda got lost checking the place out.”
    “You like it?”
    “I do,” I reply, nodding my head. “It’s very . . . unique.”
    “That’s a good word for it.” He laughs, throwing his arm over the back of the bench. “Can I make some suggestions?” he asks, pointing to the menu.
    “Sure.”
    Deacon begins to excitedly tell me about the menu. His eyes light up as he goes over all of the interesting combinations in the pockets, anything from your average pepperoni pizza, to barbeque, and even gator. Like, they really have a pocket with alligator in it. I’m intrigued, but I end up going with a pulled pork pocket with fresh slaw and order one of their dessert pockets with blueberries and whipped cream.
    His pale bluish-green eyes that seem so familiar and friendly, scan the room, but it’s the proud smile he wears when he sees me watching I find the most endearing. Well, that, and his over-sized dimples. He definitely gets those from his dad, and the chestnut-colored hair from his mom. It’s an identical match to Annie’s, even the natural wave is the same.
    “I’m going to go to the ladies’ room and check my voicemail before our order gets here,” I tell him, looking around for a sign.
    “Yeah, the bathroom is just down the hall by the bar. You can’t miss it,” he says, pointing over my shoulder.
    I walk down the hall and head straight for the bathroom. When I’m finished washing my hands and patting my face with a damp paper towel, I take a look at myself in the mirror and wish I would’ve gone back to the motel to freshen up before coming out with Deacon. I run a hand through my hair, trying to tame the fly-aways. I guess it doesn’t really matter. It’s not like I’m trying to impress anyone.
    Once I’m finished in the bathroom, I step out into the hall and turn the opposite way of the dining room to check my messages. I hope Graham has called to check in, but deep down, I know he hasn’t. When I see the one missed call is from an unknown number, I go to my voicemail, but there’s nothing there. Piper left a text message a couple of hours ago, but I hadn’t received it due to lack of service out at the plantation. I shoot her a quick one back, letting her know