as she reached for the plastic, his grip on the card tightened.
“Is there a problem?” she asked when he wouldn’t let go.
“You tell me.” His eyes dropped to her wrist. To the bluish-red spots marked where Warren’s fingers had been.
Dammit. She’d hoped there wouldn’t be any evidence. Letting go of the credit card, Abby pulled the cuff of her sleeve down to her knuckles. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Do all your knishes look like eggs over easy?”
“What?” His question made no sense.
“The bill says I ordered blueberry knishes and rye toast.”
“Sorry. I gave you the bill from two tables over by mistake.”
“Again.”
“Again,” Abby repeated. That’s right; she’d made the same mistake with him yesterday. She wondered if she’d messed up any other tables. Guy would kill her if she did. Again.
“Happens when you’re distracted.”
“Or busy,” Abby countered, refusing to take the bait. She was trying to put Warren out of her head, and while she wasn’t having much luck, talking about him wouldn’t help.
Taking her order pad from her pocket, she flipped the pages. “Here’s yours,” she said, tearing out a new page. “Eggs over easy, bacon and whole-wheat toast. Same as every day. You want me to ring you up?” The sooner he settled his bill, the sooner he’d leave. Maybe then she could pretend the morning hadn’t happened.
“Please.”
Hunter noticed that this time when she reached for the card, she snatched it with her right hand, keeping her left still tucked inside her sweater. How hard did you have to squeeze someone’s wrist to leave a bruise, anyway? Pretty damn hard, he imagined. A man had to have some serious anger issues to grab a woman that tightly.
Sipping the last of his cold coffee, he watched Abby ring up his bill, the sleeve of her sweater stretched almost to her fingertips. A poor attempt at hiding the evidence.
He’d known the minute the guy walked in that he was a first-class jerk. The overly expensive leather jacket and hair plugs screamed needy self-importance. It took him by surprise, though, when the jerk approached Abby. If anyone could be considered jerkdom’s polar opposite, it was his waitress. Since his return stateside, Hunter had spent his meals at Guy’s trying to figure out what it was that had him sitting in the same section day after day. Certainly wasn’t the service, since Abby messed up his order on a regular basis.
Her looks? With her overly lean frame and angular features she wasn’t what you’d call conventionally pretty. She was, however, eye-catching. Her butterscotch-colored topknot had a mind of its own, always flopping in one direction or another, with more and more strands working their way loose as the day progressed. The color reminded him of Sicilian beaches, warm and golden. Luckily, Guy was lax about health-code regulations. Be a shame to cover such a gorgeous color with an ugly hairnet.
She had fascinating eyes, too. Big brown eyes the size of dinner plates.
The bell over the front door rang. Hunter watched as she stiffened and cast a nervous look toward the entrance. Worried the jerk would return? Or that he wouldn’t? Could be either. For all Hunter knew, his butterscotch-haired waitress had a big old dark side and liked being manhandled. Nothing surprised him anymore.
Well, almost nothing. He’d managed to surprise himself this morning. Since when did he step into other people’s business?
A soft cough broke his thoughts. Looking up, he saw Abby standing there, coffeepot in her grip. Her right hand again. “Wrist sore?” he couldn’t help asking.
“No.” The answer came fast and defensively. “Why would it be?”
How about because she’d had the daylights squeezed out of it? “No reason.”
If she wasn’t interested in sharing, so be it. Wasn’t his business, anyway. “Can I have a pen? For the receipt.”
Her cheeks pinked slightly as she handed him the one from her pocket. Hunter scribbled his name and began gathering his belongings.
“Thank you.” The words reached him as he was hanging his camera strap around his neck. Spoken softly and with her back turned, they could have been for the thirty percent tip. Or not. He saved them both the embarrassment of responding.
* * *
Distracted didn’t begin to cover Abby’s mental state for the rest of the day. She spent her entire shift expecting Warren to tap her on the shoulder. By the time she finished work, she’d managed to mess up four more orders. Not all the customers were as forgiving as Hunter, either. Guy was ready to run her out the door.
“Make sure your head’s on straight tomorrow,” he groused when she clocked out.
She wanted to tell him that if her head had ever been on straight, she wouldn’t be working in a greasy spoon and dodging her ex. Common sense kept her mouth shut. No need to make a bad situation worse by adding unemployment to the mix.
To her great relief, she stepped out to an empty street to wait for her taxi. Thank goodness. How she hated being back to looking over her shoulder. After six weeks, she’d foolishly begun thinking her life might actually be her own again. Granted, it wasn’t the best of lives, but it was hers. Or rather, she’d thought so until Warren tracked her down. You’d think he’d be glad to be rid of her. Wasn’t he forever telling her how she made his life so difficult?
Letting out a breath, she leaned against the railing in front of Guy’s storefront. She hated taking a taxicab, too. Spending money earmarked for savings. It wasn’t that she was so afraid of Warren. Sure, he’d gotten physical a few times—more than a few times—but she could handle him.
Liar. Why are you taking a cab then? Just a few hours ago, she’d worried today might the day he’d go over the edge.
Breaking up with Warren was supposed to be her new beginning. The end of walking on eggshells. Now she was stuck either leaving the one lousy job she could find, or praying that Warren had lost interest now that he’d tracked her down.
Angry tears rimmed her eyes. She sniffed them back. Warren wasn’t going to win. She wouldn’t let him.
Just then, movement caught the corner of her eye and she stiffened, hating herself even as she gripped the iron railing. Slowly, she pulled her thoughts back to her surroundings.
It was the photographer, coming down the street, camera slung around his neck. His sunglasses had migrated to his eyes, hiding their unique color. Didn’t matter. He was still looking in her direction, his attention causing her stomach to quiver with unwanted awareness.
“Everything okay?” he asked as her taxi pulled up.
For crying out loud, couldn’t a woman buy a moment of privacy? As it was, he already knew more of her business than necessary.
She slid into the backseat without answering.
* * *
Hunter
