She couldn’t pull away without making a scene. “You’re going to get me fired.”
“So, what? You’re too good for this place.” Sarge tried to get a quickstep going, but he had two left feet and it ended up a terrible galumphing mess. They barely avoided crashing into the chairs. “Marry me, and we’ll dance into the sunset together.”
“Sarge…”
But the rest of the Old Coot Club were clapping now, egging him on. Damn it. It had probably gone on only fifteen seconds, but that was an eternity for something this inappropriate. She was going to have to get tough.
Hoping she didn’t throw off Sarge, who had an impressive spare tire that clearly redistributed his center of gravity, she suddenly ducked under his arms and moved backward fast to free herself.
He must have thought she was falling, because he reached out and tried to grab her shoulder. His hand caught her left breast instead. He yanked it back as if he’d touched a hot stove, and immediately lost his footing, plopping onto the table, scarcely missing the tines of a fork.
Equally startled, she took two more awkward steps backward, tangling her feet. Her rear end hit the small folding table on which she’d rested the tray, and before she could even think about righting herself, everything toppled over with a crash.
She landed in the prawns, with a broken glass of iced tea pooling in her lap, freezing her thighs. Sarge cried out, and, in a very stupid move, decided to rush over to help. He slipped on something, maybe a piece of bread slathered in mayonnaise, and landed in a heap at her feet.
Well, of course. Nothing by half measures.
Though her tailbone hurt, her hand was stinging, her dress was soaked and she was downright mortified, she suddenly had the strangest urge to laugh. Apparently, if you went far enough beyond awful, you reached ridiculous.
“Are you all right?”
She looked up. Redmond Malone squatted beside her, looking her over with an expression she couldn’t quite interpret. She wondered whether he, too, might be trying not to laugh.
“I’m fine,” she said, hoping she didn’t have any parsley in her hair. She plucked ice off her skirt and plunked it into one of the unbroken glasses. “We’ve almost got it, don’t you think? Next stop…Dancing with the Stars.”
“Well.” He gathered the largest chunks of glass and set them on the tray carefully. “You might want to work on the dismount.”
“Allie! I’m so sorry, honey.” The others had helped Sarge to his feet, and he held out a hand to help Allison up. Unfortunately, it was covered in mayonnaise. “Bring Flip out here. I’ll explain that it wasn’t your fault.”
She didn’t want to hurt the old guy’s feelings, but if she took Sarge’s slippery hand, she’d end up right back on her rear end. She glanced around for something more stable to hold on to.
Redmond, who still squatted only inches away, didn’t waste any time. He placed the last shard of glass in a safe place, then turned to her and held out both his hands. She glanced at those shoulders, then down at the lean, strong thighs. He could definitely support her. She put her hands in his.
She didn’t even have to use her own strength. In one fluid motion she was on her feet, tilting ever so slightly toward that soft black T-shirt. She got close enough to tell that he didn’t wear cologne and smelled only of fresh cotton and soap and something they ought to bottle and call Raw Sex Appeal.
Then, because she had a highly evolved sense of self-preservation, she held her breath and angled her head away from him. What the hell was she doing smelling this stranger’s T-shirt?
For that matter, why was she standing here at all, staring into his electric blue eyes, like a deer frozen before an oncoming car? She had things to do. She had to get a redo on that order into the kitchen, stat. She had to get the floor cleaned up, new drinks delivered.
She glanced down, and to her horror she realized she was still holding the man’s hands, as if she still hadn’t quite found her equilibrium. She pulled her fingers free and rubbed them nervously on her damp skirt. “Thanks,” she said. “I—”
“Gotcha covered, girlfriend.” Sue winked as she and Moira joined the crowd. Within seconds the two of them had efficiently cleared the food off the floor and carted it away. Teddy, the busboy, headed toward them with a mop.
The Old Coots Club had mobilized, too, and brought their silverware and salad plates to order. They clustered around her, fussing over her wet skirt, making sure the broken shards hadn’t cut her hand.
“I’ll make it right, Allie.” Sarge had washed his hands somehow, probably in his water glass. He put his arm around her shoulder. “I’ll talk to Flip and make sure he doesn’t dock you for the food. Don’t you worry.”
“I’m not worried,” she said honestly. Flip wasn’t here today, but he’d believe her version of the story. He knew what the Old Coots were like. Now and then, they’d break into a barbershop quartet version of some sad old song, like “Apple Blossom Time,” or “Sixteen Tons,” which would enchant the other customers, at least until Dickey O’Connor started crying. And last week Bill and Stuart Phipps had brawled up one end of the café and down the other, all because Bill had insulted Elizabeth Taylor.
Flip said they were like a free floor show. Plus, they were great customers. Every one of them an eccentric, well-to-do widower who hated eating alone at home. Mostly, though, Flip put up with them because, like everyone else who lived year-round in Windsor Beach, he loved the goofy old guys.
“Hey. Allie. Over here.” For some reason, Dickey O’Connor was talking out of one side of his mouth. Only five feet tall, and a hundred pounds soaking wet, he was a wonderful storyteller, but he was a little too fond of drama. He frequently created cloak-and-dagger mysteries out of thin air.
Maybe he was going to warn her that her fall had been orchestrated by the evil conspirators of Shadowland. But she’d play along. Dickey was probably the closest of all the Old Coots to a nursing home, though it broke her heart to think of it.
“Psst. Allie.”
She glanced once at Redmond, who seemed to be watching the whole thing with a strangely analytical interest, as if he were an anthropologist studying some indigenous tribe. Then she joined Dickey at the side of the table.
“Here, honey,” he said under his breath, sounding more like a gangster than the honest, retired Irish boat-builder he was. He had something hidden in his hand, which he held stiffly at his side. He gestured jerkily, trying to get her attention. “Here.”
She put her own hand out, low and sneaky, as obviously was required.
He nodded, satisfied. “You don’t need anything from Sarge,” he said. “This’ll make it right.” He flicked his hand and dropped something in hers. Then, laying one finger aside his nose, he glided smoothly away, pretending it hadn’t happened.
She turned her back to him, and opened her hand. Glittering against her palm was a very large, very beautiful, but very fake diamond. Oh, Dickey.
Sighing hard, she clamped her fingers shut over her palm, then slid the diamond into her pocket. As if she didn’t have enough to do…
She
