what they were doing.
A door at the far right end of the wall behind the bar swung open and a very broad man in a white paper cap and greasy apron wiped his hands while scanning the room. He looked toward Janette and Stephen and shouted over the television din, “Saw the Massachusetts plates in the lot. Wondered if it was you.” He made his way down the bar and held out a hand. Stephen grabbed it and gave it a hearty shake. “What happened to your last car?” the cook asked. He leaned his forearms on the bar top and his forehead furrowed.
Stephen shrugged and pushed his shrimp to one corner of his platter. “Couldn’t fit all the kids and their boxing gear into it. Half of them wouldn’t show up for lessons if they didn’t have the ride.”
“It’s just Saturdays, right?”
Stephen nodded and spooned up some coleslaw.
“Even so, I don’t see how you’re still juggling everything. Saturdays sometimes ended up being my busiest workdays. All that fucking paperwork.”
“Well, you had an incompetent paralegal.”
“Don’t talk shit about my cousin. She tried hard.”
They both laughed, and it dawned on Janette that this man must have been the lawyer turned restaurateur Stephen had mentioned during the drive. He certainly didn’t look like much of a lawyer, or even a past one. What she could see of his salt-and-pepper hair was gathered into a ponytail at his nape. Both arms were covered in traditional-style tattoos from wrists to, probably, shoulders. The T-shirt tucked into his half apron had a Vargas-style pinup girl with pursed red lips holding a platter of fried clams beneath a speech bubble that read, “ Don’t clam up now, honey. The fun’s just getting started at The Sandbar Grille .”
He moved in front of Janette and his pecs danced beneath the pinup’s head. “Like my shirt? That guy”—he tipped his head toward Stephen—“told me to try again with the wording. I didn’t listen.”
She looked at Stephen, and he beamed over a you’re on your own look before diving back into his dinner.
Thanks a lot.
She turned back to the cook and met his gaze. His eyes were a cold, steely gray, but there was kindness in them. He had the sort of calm peacefulness in his bearing only possible from a man who was truly content with his situation. He’d found his calling. Lucky.
She cleared her throat. “Uh. Well, it does make me curious about what the fun is.” She had a sneaking suspicion it was something more than piling fried foodstuffs into one’s belly.
“Oh, she’s a smart one,” he said to Stephen, and then turned back to her. “This is my Wednesday night shirt. I’m behind on laundry. My wife left me.”
“Derrick, your wife left you ten years ago,” Stephen said.
“And I’m only five days behind on laundry. I call that a win. Dick. Hey, I’m just a cook. I can’t afford la-di-dah dry-cleaning like some people I know.”
Stephen scoffed. “Right. Just a cook, my ass.” He gave Janette the tiniest little nudge to her upper arm. That small touch sent a constriction to her lungs that made her suck in a sharp breath. Damn, if he actually touched anything important , she might combust.
“This guy right here,” he said, obviously unaware of her distress, “used to ruin corporations.”
“On purpose?” Her voice came out as a strained wisp, and she he had to remind herself to exhale. Did his acknowledgement really mean that much to her?
“Yeah, on purpose. That was his job.”
“If they’d been doing what they were supposed to be doing in the first place, they wouldn’t need ruining,” Derrick said. “Anyway. That was the old me. I don’t even own a matching suit anymore.”
“As long as you’re happy,” Janette said.
“I am happy. And I’d be much happier if you came back Wednesday night.”
“Nuh-uh.” Stephen shook his head hard. “She’s not that kind of girl.”
“Oh, friend of yours?”
She froze, afraid to move even the smallest muscle while