she said, giving him a funny look while he slid into the turquoise vinyl booth.
“Extra mayo and grilled onions, please.”
“You got it.”
In the meantime, Beau helped himself to Gracie’s fries. Lucky for him, she’d chosen a lonely corner, away from the obnoxious pop blaring on the jukebox, out of the line of sight of anyone walking through the front door or on their way back from the john. Expecting Gracie to pounce the second she caught sight of him, Beau continued downing her fries, but remained on alert.
A few minutes later, she rounded the corner and gasped. “What’re you—”
By the time Gracie had even realized what’d happened, a marshal—that nice one—stood, nudged her into the booth, then sat beside her, pinning her in. “Howdy,” he said in his best Southern twang. “How y’all doin’?”
“Let me go,” she snarled from between clenched teeth. “Or so help me, I’ll scream so loud every redneck in this joint’ll tear you to pieces.”
“Good,” Beau said, helping himself to another fry. “Then after that, they’ll no doubt be happy to tackle the other guys after you.”
“What other guys?”
“Four goons your hubby hired. Yesterday afternoon, a friend of mine from Portland PD gave me a tip. We found out that with the bulk of his pals still behind bars, your ex assembled a new crew to take you out. Which is why my boss feels a sense of urgency about getting you back under our protection.”
“Right,” Gracie said, snatching her plate from him, then wolfing down a fry. Oh, personal experience taught her Vicente was a man to be feared, but he wasn’t superhuman. She wasn’t using a credit card or cell phone, so as far as she knew, she couldn’t be traced. As for how this marshal ended up finding her, she’d chalk that up to pure, dumb luck. She’d told police her plans to compete in San Francisco, and he no doubt assumed she’d be on I-5—the most direct route.
Mistake Number One.
From here on out, she’d stick solely to back roads.
After all, this close to obtaining her most cherished dreams of becoming a mother and winning the world renowned CAI competition, she wasn’t about to do something stupid like put her life at risk.
Yes, Vicente no doubt knew that she would attend the Culinary Olympics, but come on, the man was a prison escapee. He was also brilliant. Meaning, he wouldn’t risk freedom by showing up at one of the most publicized events in the culinary world.
Wishing for her own wafer-thin, home cooked potato chips accompanied by a nice, mellow dill dip, a turkey burger and side of pasta salad, Gracie instead made lemonade from the lemons of her life by grabbing for the ketchup bottle. But it was new, and the lid wouldn’t budge.
The marshal calmly took the bottle from her, easily twisting off the top. It made a cheerful little pop.
Glaring at him, choosing to ignore the supercharged hum that’d passed between them when their hands brushed, Gracie took the bottle back, giving it a good, hard shake. She was just about to reach for her knife to stick it inside, when he took the bottle again, thumping the side and bottom with the heel of his hand.
Once a thick, red river of ketchup pooled on her plate, he calmly put the lid on the bottle, then reached past her to set it alongside a squeeze mustard bottle, sugar and napkins.
“I could’ve done that,” she said, blocking his all-male scent of leather and cars and some other intriguing something she couldn’t begin to identify, but had the craziest urge to explore. “I’m a chef. I have my own ketchup trick.”
“Did I say you couldn’t have done it?”
“No, but your tone implied it.”
“What tone?”
“That one,” she said, plucking pickles from her burger. “You used it just now. It plainly said you think I’m incompetent, and that I need a big, strong man to look after me and make my ketchup come out. But you know what? I made it this far on my own, and—” Startled, she jumped.
“Here you go,” the waitress said, having caught Gracie off guard when she’d abruptly rounded the corner. She set a plate loaded with another burger and fries on the table. “Need anything else?”
“No, thank you,” Gracie said. Why, oh why, when she’d flinched, hadn’t she headed for the wall instead of her assigned marshal? Who actually, now that she’d gotten a better look at him, was disturbingly hot. The whole right side of her body still tingled.
But there were no tingles in Normalville! Especially when she had no want nor need for any men in her life—let alone hot ones!
“Actually,” the marshal said to the waitress, “I wouldn’t mind a Coke when you get a second.”
“Be right back.” On her return trip to the kitchen, the rail-thin redhead sang along with the jukebox.
“Mind passing the ketchup?” the marshal asked.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Gracie said, careful to set the stupid bottle in front of him, rather than risk another touching encounter by passing it directly into his waiting hand. “How if I’m skitterish enough to jump when a waitress comes around, that I must be a real head case. But I’ll have you know I didn’t flinch just a second ago because I was scared or nervous or anything. Flinching is a natural reaction often encountered during the latter stages of a woman’s third trimester.”
“Uh-huh,” he said before taking a bite of his burger.
“You don’t believe me?”
He just sat there chewing.
She cut her burger in half, then took a bite, only to wince before swallowing. “I can’t eat this,” she said.
“Why?”
“It’s cold. I don’t usually eat foods like…” Making a face, she waved at the offensive burger. “Plus, I have a texture issue about cold grease. Feels funny on my tongue.”
“Take mine,” he said, switching plates. “It’s still good and hot.”
“I couldn’t,” she said.
“Afraid I’ve got cooties? Want me to cut off the part where I bit?”
“Of course not,” she said. And to prove it, she took a bite right beside his, only to then wish she’d have just stuck with her own cold burger.
The slow grin he cast her way made a mess of her earlier assumption that the man was her enemy. How long had it been since someone was truly nice to her? Sacrifice-his-own-hot-burger nice? A while. But that didn’t mean now she should suddenly go soft.
If she let this marshal take her back to Portland, she’d be stuck in some so-called safe house for who knew how long before Vicente’s case went to trial. Seeing how now that he’d vanished, he couldn’t exactly be put on the stand. Her chance for winning the CAI’s prize would be gone, along with her and her baby
