Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [46]
Sam poked his head out of the kitchen. Seeing she was occupied on the ladder, he tiptoed past with a plate, heading toward the glassed-in porch.
“Taking a lunch break, Sam?” she called, hiding her laughter.
“Damn, woman, you scared me.” His teeth flashed in a big grin. “I thought the cat that ain’t got a name might be hungry. I fixed him some leftover chicken.”
“He doesn’t look as if he’s missed many meals,” she pointed out.
“Don’t mean he ain’t hungry. I don’t like anything to go hungry.”
Asha was rocking her hips to “The Phoenix and The Ashes” by Brolum—a Trad Scottish group—when she heard a low-throttle rumble. A black car slowly pulled into the lot and parked in front of the restaurant. Still on the stepladder, she bent down to see it was Derek’s Shelby. Oddly, he pushed out of the passenger side: Derek never let anyone drive his baby. He had a hemorrhage if anyone so much as got a fingerprint on the bloody car. Just asking if you could drive it sent him into an apoplexy. She noticed Winnie watched, too, curious. Jago climbed out of the driver’s seat.
As the men came through the front door, Asha went back to hanging the metallic garland, pretending she couldn’t care less that Jago had finally returned; she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing she’d anticipated spending the morning with him. Glancing toward Winnie, she noticed the girl had shifted into the same cold-shoulder routine, an instinctive universal mode of handling men that most of the poor things had never learned to offset.
“This should prove interesting.” She chuckled softly.
All buddy-buddy, Derek and Jago sat on stools at the counter. Derek thumped his fist on it. “Service! What sort of greasy spoon, jip joint is this? I want service!”
Asha continued hanging the garland. “Sorry, management reserves the right to refuse service.”
Trading smirks of silent communication, they waited until she finished. Derek casually glanced over his shoulder at Winnie in the back booth.
Figuring she’d made them wait long enough, Asha climbed down and went to stand before them. “What will you gents have?”
“Coffee and two of anything that goes with breakfast,” Jago ordered, not bothering to look at the menu.
Derek said, “OJ, scrambled eggs, sausage, and half a dozen of Sam’s buttermilk biscuits.”
“Hmm . . . maybe you should’ve gone to see Ella at The Cliffside. I hear she passes out blueberry muffins—to men. I’ll see if Sam’s still serving breakfast. Since we are preparing for the lunch rush now, it might be too late.” Asha wrote up two tickets, went to the window and attached them to the wheel, then spun them around. Sam was cleaning the grill, his back to her, so she dinged the bell to get his attention.
“You gonna ding that stupid bell one too many times, girl, and I’m going to toss it out the door. I ain’t deaf like Delbert. Just holler. Whatcha want?” the cook asked.
“I was checking if you are still serving breakfast, but I see you’ve cleaned the grill for the lunch crowd, so I guess not.” She smiled playfully.
“You gone loopy, girl? What lunch crowd?” Yanking down the tickets, Sam scanned the orders. “Morning, Jago,” he called through the opening. “Ignore Asha. She’s been listening to “Purple People Eater” too long. I’ll have breakfast up in about ten minutes.”
She poured juice and coffee for both men. Only then did she make full eye contact with Jago. His suppressed smile said he was aware he received the cold shoulder. When she continued with her silence, he crooked a brow and nodded to the Wurlitzer.