A video!” Nate went down on hands and knees to search the DVDs on the bottom bookshelf. He pulled one out. “This one.”
Nina set up the Disney movie and gave Nate the remote. “Finish your snack first. Then you can start the movie.” She hurried back out to the kitchen.
She nearly stumbled when she saw Jameson at the prep counter, a white apron tied around his waist, his deft hands slicing tomatoes. “I think they’re ready to order.”
“What are you doing? You can’t be here.”
He speared her with his gaze. “You’ve got nearly thirty customers out there and you don’t have a cook.”
She looked out on the floor and saw three more families had arrived. “I’ll find someone else.”
“You don’t need to. I’m here.”
Panic flared inside her. The longer he stayed, the greater the risk that he might guess. She couldn’t let that happen. She had to protect Nate. “You need to leave.” She bit out the words, her fear making her harsh.
“I know you don’t want me around your boy.” His shoulders tensed, his hands stilled. “I’m the world’s lousiest role model, I know that. If he was my son…”
He’s not! He’s not your son! She wanted to shout the words.
“I just want to help.” He looked back at her. “I won’t talk to him, okay? I’ll keep my distance.”
A heaviness settled in Nina’s stomach. It felt wrong to let him believe she wanted him to go because he was an ex-con. Yet how could she tell him the truth when it left her so vulnerable?
The noise level out on the floor increased as another party entered. Jameson stared at her, waiting for her answer. She nodded. “I’d appreciate your help.”
She saw a flicker of gratitude in his eyes before he turned away and sliced the last of the tomato on the prep counter. “Anything new on the menu I should know about?”
“Blackened catfish. The spice is there.” She reached past him for a small shaker.
He should have stepped back out of her way, he knew that. But somehow, the temptation of being near her rooted him to the spot. When her shoulder brushed against his chest it took everything in him to keep from reaching for her.
The contact was obviously unwelcome. She jumped back, the plastic shaker slipping from her fingers into the aluminum square full of tomatoes. When she would have grabbed for it, he plucked it from the juicy red slices and set it aside.
He wiped the blade of the serrated knife on a paper towel and placed it out of the way. “Just the catfish, then?”
“Yes. That’s it.”
Her hands fluttered like birds as if she didn’t know what to do with them. He could come up with at least a dozen suggestions, most of them involving naked skin and hot passion.
She must have seen something in his face because she backed away from him and escaped the kitchen. He watched her through the pass-through as she snatched up an order pad and headed for the largest table of customers.
Jameson tore his gaze from her and focused on the prep counter. He quickly surveyed the familiar layout of makings for cold sandwiches, gravies and sauces for hot food, the griddle and grill behind him. He’d only worked here a year, yet that time stood out with greater clarity than any other in his life. Because of Nina, surely, and their incandescent night together. But also because of her parents, their kindness and trust in him.
Nina put up the first orders on five separate tickets, only pausing long enough to give him the briefest glance before she hurried back out to the next table. He didn’t have time to think then, unless it had to do with grilling a hamburger patty or dropping a basket of fries into the deep fryer. They were slammed hard with a steady stream of customers, and he was glad to have his hands and feet constantly busy.
But then the old rhythm settled in and it might have been five years ago, when he had worked the dinner hour nearly every night. His actions became automatic—a quick glance at the ticket, turn and toss a T-bone on the grill, pull the catfish from the broiler, slice open a foil-wrapped baker and toss it on the plate.
If he hadn’t let his mind drift a bit from the actions of his hands, he might have missed the flash of movement caught out of the corner of his eye. As it was, he was so occupied with moving the T-bone from the hottest part of the flame, he couldn’t turn to confirm what he thought he’d seen. There was a shuffle of feet next, then when Jameson glanced over toward the source of the noise, he saw a small form duck out of sight.
After four years constantly on edge, aware of the peril around every corner, it was a relief to have nothing more to fear than the spying eyes of a young boy. When Jameson heard another rattle, then a clang when a large metal spoon slipped from a counter to the floor, he sensed the child didn’t want to be seen so he kept his attention on his work.
He’d gotten only the briefest glimpse of the youngster before Nina had swept him away. He had Nina’s coloring—dark hair, lively dark eyes, a sweet smile. Thin as a whippet, unlike his mother’s generous body. Energy to spare, Jameson guessed from the way the boy had rocketed into the café.
So, who was the father? Jameson remembered Nina had had quite a thing for one of the local ranchers. That was part of the reason she’d been so vulnerable to him, he recalled with a twinge of guilt. Despite the passion blazing through him, he’d made certain that night she was willing, but even then, he’d known he wouldn’t have had a chance if her heart wasn’t aching for another man.
So, could the rancher be the father? Had he and Nina linked up after Jameson had disappeared from her life? If so, the rancher certainly wasn’t in the picture now, or he would have been the first one she called to stand in for the missing night cook.
Suddenly, there was Nina on the other side of the pass-through, her wary gaze on him. Jameson flushed, half wondering if she’d somehow guessed his thoughts. But she was only there to slap another order on the shelf.
Jameson reached for it, then when Nina made to pick up the slip of paper again, his fingers tangled with hers. She stared at him, startled, her hand tense against his. He had to pull away, shouldn’t be touching her, but she was too warm, too real. He couldn’t seem to break the contact.
She snatched back the meal check. “Sorry. Forgot to add fries.”
“No problem.” He turned away on the pretext of checking the steak on the grill. He flipped the T-bone, giving her time to drop the check and go. But when he returned to the prep counter, she still stood at the window, her brown eyes troubled.
“We always worked well together,” she said. Then she tipped her head down, set down the check and hurried out to the tables.
Emotion tugged at him, a shadow of what he’d felt years ago when the Russos had taken him into their lives. At the time, he would have jumped over the moon if it would have won their acceptance. And yet he’d betrayed them—once with their only daughter, a second time when he took the path that led to Folsom Prison.
He set his mind back to his work. Take the T-bone off the grill. Serve up mashed potatoes and gravy. Spoon up a dish of peas and put the order up.
He
