even know me. I could be a criminal.”
“Are you?”
“No.” Jessamine sighed. Why couldn’t she lie?
“Then I know what I need to. You’re kind, compassionate and an experienced waitress. Please, Jessie. I’m desperate.”
She shouldn’t risk the exposure. “I really don’t need a job.”
“Just a week. Two at the most. Keep my customers happy and my nephew off my back while you train your replacements.”
Jessamine searched for an excuse and came up empty. You don’t owe this near stranger an explanation. Just. Say. No.
“We serve lunch and dinner Friday through Sunday but only dinner the rest of the week. I pay well. C’mon, Jessie. I need you. It would be a load off my mind if I didn’t have to close my doors because I don’t have enough staff to open tonight.”
Jessamine could practically hear the vacuum sound as she got sucked in. Filling out forms with her name and address wouldn’t be smart.
“Please?” Hazel eyes pleaded. “You’d be working with two other waitresses. One’s very experienced. The other’s not bad.”
Jessie was sick of her own company. Her vacation felt like solitary confinement. And tips were often cash. If she helped Miri, she could solve her own problem this time instead of relying on her family to send her money—money they couldn’t spare. She caved like soggy papier-mâché.
“I can help. But only if you’ll let me work for tips alone. No paycheck. No paper trail.”
Miri’s pale eyebrows shot up. Her gaze turned speculative. “Okay. You’re hired. I’ll get you a copy of Carla’s schedule. Be right back.”
Miri disappeared into the building. Again, Jessamine heard Brandon’s voice. Not smart, Li’l Bit. You should have said no. Run while you can.
But her body hadn’t obeyed the order by the time Miri returned and slid a paper and pen across the table. “I’ll need your phone number and clothing sizes.”
“I, um...”
Her cellular and home phone numbers had been hacked within hours of the lottery win announcement, and the begging calls had come around the clock from strangers, “friends” and relatives so distant no one could remember them. Their sob stories of children with cancer or single moms living in cars had been so convincing and heart wrenching that Jessamine had wanted to help them all. Her father’s intervention was the only thing that had stopped her from blowing that first check on strangers. He’d warned her she’d soon be broke if she didn’t toughen up.
Then her brother had confiscated her old phone and disconnected her house phone. He’d taken her to buy a box of disposable units from different stores, then he’d given her strict instructions to use a phone for two weeks then discard it and open a new one. She no longer kept a phone long enough to learn the number.
Miri waited. “I, um...don’t know my number.”
“None of us do anymore. It’s a push-button world these days. I’ll need it if I need to call you to change your schedule. No one will have it except me. I’ll wait while you look it up.”
Suspecting she might be making a mistake she’d live to regret, Jessamine reluctantly pulled out her phone, turned it on and wrote down the number that appeared on the screen. She added her clothing sizes and handed the paper back to Miri. The woman folded it and tucked it into her bra.
“I’ll keep it right here. No one will get it.” Miri reached across the table and covered Jessamine’s hand. “Do you need a safe place to stay, Jessie?”
The question threw her. “I have one. Thanks.”
“Are you sure? Because I have a guest room over my garage. You can stay as long as you want. And Jack left me a .30-30. Kicks like hell but gets the job done.”
Miri was offering protection and even willing to use a rifle to provide it. She must think Jessamine was running from someone—an abusive ex or something. The thoughtfulness of a stranger made her eyes sting. She squeezed Miri’s hand. “I’m good. But thank you.”
“Then I’ll see you today at three. I’ll have a uniform for you and we’ll go over my system. Jessie, I can’t thank you enough for helping me through this rough patch.”
Jessamine rose and beat a hasty retreat, kicking herself the whole way back to her vehicle. She debated not returning tonight. Miri only had her phone number. No last name. No address. Jessamine would simply have to toss this phone to avoid any calls.
But she’d promised. Miri needed her help training waitresses and running interference with the bossy nephew. Jessam—Jessie could do that. And then she’d go home with a clear conscience.
But she had to learn to say no. Starting now.
* * *
THE PRETTY BRUNETTE caught Logan’s eye even before he took his customary seat at the oyster bar. She was lean but in shape, and she had great legs. Sleek muscles flexed beneath the smooth, tanned skin revealed by the Fisherman’s Widow’s uniform of a tank top and denim skort. A thick, loose braid hung to the middle of her back with escaped strands of hair draping her cheeks.
She’d waited tables before, though not here. It showed in the easy way she carried five loaded plates on one arm, refilled glasses with a flick of her wrist and kept the hush puppy baskets full. She had an engaging smile for the customers, but tension lingered behind it.
That stiffness, combined with the way her hypervigilant gaze snapped toward the entrance each time the front door of his aunt’s restaurant opened, kept him ensnared. It was as if she feared who might walk in. He’d entered through the kitchen, so she’d missed his arrival.
His aunt came through the swinging doors and set a plate on the bar in front of him. “See what you think of this. I’m experimenting with the mahi.”
He eyed the dish. He’d spent a large part of his life being her number-one guinea pig. Most times, that was a good thing. “What is it?”
“Coconut-crusted mahi sliders with pineapple chutney.”
Sounded edible. He took a bite. The tender, flaky meat practically melted in his mouth, and the seasonings were the perfect balance between sweet and hot. He chewed, then swallowed. “This recipe’s a keeper. Who’s the new waitress?”
Miri’s gaze swung across the crowded dining room, stopping where his hovered. “Jessie. She’s a sweet girl. Experienced, too.”
“Where’s Carla? Late again?”
Miri hesitated, and he braced himself for the excuse du jour. “Carla’s doctor ordered her to stay off her feet for the rest of her pregnancy.”
“She’s barely pregnant.”
“She’s six months along, and her blood pressure spiked.”
He should have known the woman would find the one excuse for which she legally couldn’t be fired. He didn’t like her or her overly
