tables. She wore a white butcher’s apron tied over a blue work shirt and jeans. She seemed thinner than he remembered—she turned to take the third man’s order and the overhead lights threw an elegant cheekbone into stark relief. But he’d have known her anywhere, even without those lizardskin boots. She’d pulled her marigold mane back into a prim braid, though wisps of it escaped already to feather her cheeks. She swiped a forearm up across her brow as if she could feel the heat of his eyes, nodded coolly at something one of the customers said, then swung back toward the kitchen.
As she moved away, the biggest trucker grabbed an apron string. The perky bow at her hips unraveled and she stopped.
You—Tag found himself halfway to his feet. He dropped abruptly back into place. He couldn’t walk over there and heave that jerk across the counter without Susannah noticing. And he’d promised himself their first encounter would be private. On his terms. So easy. Cool it.
Besides, his Texas hellion needed no man’s help. She turned with graceful deliberation, said something that didn’t carry to Tag’s ears. Her admirer sat back and clasped his hands on the table, schoolboy with knuckles rapped. Chin high, boot heels clacking, she marched off to the kitchen. When the door swung shut behind her, the trucker’s friends tipped back their heads and roared.
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