Page 43 of Stealth Mission
“It doesn’t help. I’ve tried.”
“Poor girl.” She tsks and heads off across the restaurant with her black skirt snapping around her shapely sixty-year-old legs.
Peter isn’t the only one who loves Rissa, but while he loves her because she’s the queen of waitressing, all his buddies love her because she’s a babe. The woman pours a mean drink, looks great, and knows how to flirt with the best of them.
No wonder she’s always got a fancy car. She probably kills it in tips.
Peter snaps a clean white bar towel in the air and dries a cup from the dish rack. “Heard the bank alarm yesterday, guess that means the place got hit again.”
Shaking my head, I swirl the ice around in my almost empty cup. “I know all about it. I was inside waiting to see the president when it happened.”
His bushy gray brows notch down. The cup thunks on the bar and his hands splay on the surface. All misty fondness is gone from his eyes and now they look like two flinty stones. “Did they hurt you?”
“Theynever hurt anyone. The teller should just keep a bag ready to go. It would be a lot less traumatic if they could just use the drive through to hold the place up.”
His head slowly swings back and forth as his mouth sets into a grim line. We stare at each other for a few seconds. I’m about to comment on what we both know when a bellowed, “Marianna!” ricochets off the walls.
My whole body cringes.Dammit.
I am sick of people yelling my name!
I knew this one was coming, but my skin contracts like shrink-wrap anyway.
How I’d love to ignore that demand and walk out the door, only there’d be hell to pay. And right now I’m doing damage control where I can. The heap of other problems in my life aren’t so easy to mitigate.
Peter’s neck reddens under the collar of his linen tropical-print shirt as I sigh heavily and set my empty glass on the surface of the glossy wooden bar.
We look at each other. The angry expression Peter’s wearing concerns me. I don’t want my trouble bleeding over into his life.
I reach for his broad hand, squeezing the scarred knuckles. “Promise me you won’t get involved. I don’t want anything tohappen to you. Plus, Elsa needs you to be able to take care of her. By the way, tell her hello for me.”
His nostrils flare and his hands flex on the bar as I step back and adjust my purse on my shoulder. It’s not heavy today, although I wonder if I should have thrown a big rock in there just in case.
Given my luck and all.
Poor Walt. A twinge of guilt makes me crinkle my nose. Wrong place, wrong time. The last thing I expected was to run into someone when I tore out of the bank. I wasn’t thinking right.
A flutter spirals inside my stomach as I remember colliding with his broad, rock-hard chest. I’ve never touched a man like him…
Wow.
I clear my throat as my cheeks begin to heat.
Peter’s watching me like a hawk.
I fan my face and pathetically say, “Hot in here, today.”
His right eyebrow quirks up. Wearing a questioning expression, Peter nevertheless changes the subject and saves me. “Elsa wants you to come over for dinner.”
Ugh. Um…
Awkward is a place I frequently live now.
“I’ll try. Soon. Promise.”
The heat in my face grows, this time for a whole different reason. Peter and his wife, Elsa, are dear to me. They probably know I’ve been avoiding them. But I’m just not ready to spend an evening talking about things that hurt.
I offer him a quick smile that I know probably looks more sad than happy. “I really do want to see you both, but I’m sure you know I’m pretty busy, work is kind of crazy right now. So many things going on. I’m busier than a bee in springtime.”