All Summer Long (Fool's Gold #9)

She arrived right on time and stepped into the cool interior. It was late enough that there was only one person waiting.

Clay stood when he saw her, uncoiling his long, honed body. He wore gray trousers and a button-down shirt. Sex god does business, she thought, aware that after her shower, her total nod to fussing with her appearance had been to make sure her T-shirt was clean. At least she had on jeans instead of her usual baggy cargo pants. In honor of Heidi’s recent wedding, she’d gotten a pedicure. She couldn’t remember ever wearing polish before, but kind of liked the way the deep pink color looked. Yesterday she’d scrounged up a pair of sandals to show off her toes. She’d worn them to the station at the start of her shift, which meant she was wearing them now.

As testament to how screwed up she was when it came to men, she was actually torn between being pleased she at least had a decent pedicure to show off and being afraid Clay would think she was trying. Most likely the best solution would be years and years of therapy. However, she had neither the patience nor the bank account for that path. She would have to find another way to flirt with normal. A quest for after lunch, she told herself. She always problem solved better on a full stomach.

The hostess could barely keep her mouth from hanging open as she gazed at Clay. The college-aged woman batted her eyes at a rate that made Charlie wonder if she would need medical attention later for a muscle strain.

“Table for two?” the hostess asked breathlessly, flipping her long blond hair over her shoulder.

“Please,” Clay said, then stepped back to let Charlie go first.

The polite gesture caught her off guard. Even more unsettling was the hand he put on the small of her back, as if helping guide her to the booth along the side of the restaurant.

She was aware of the touch, of his palm and every finger. Not in a oh-let’s-have-sex kind of way. But just because she honest to God couldn’t remember the last time a man had touched her like that. Or, excluding shaking hands, anywhere.

They slid onto the seats and settled across from each other. The hostess leaned toward Clay, offering a flash from her low-cut blouse. She smiled.

“I could give you my number,” she whispered, although the words were still loud enough for Charlie to hear.

Clay didn’t even look at her. “Thanks, but, no.”

“You sure?”

“Uh-huh.”

He picked up the menu, then put it down. “I thought I would be someone else when I got here,” he said when the hostess had given him one last lingering look before flouncing off.

Charlie leaned toward him. “What are we talking about?”

“Sorry. I was thinking about the captain inviting me to be in a calendar to raise money.”

“Not the girl?”

“What girl?”

“The hostess who practically stripped in front of you ten seconds ago?”

His eyebrows drew together in confusion. “I didn’t notice.”

“She offered you her number.”

He shrugged.

The gesture was so casual, so dismissive, Charlie had to believe Clay honestly hadn’t been paying attention. Because it happened so much, she thought.

“Phone numbers are the new rose petals,” she said absently, picking up the menu and wondering if she should order the London chicken wrap or try something new.

“Phone numbers are what?”

She put down the menu and grinned. “Sorry. I was thinking out loud. Rose petals. You know, like in Roman times. Throwing petals before the emperor. Now you get phone numbers thrown at you. All Hail Caesar. Or Clay.” She wrinkled her nose. “Not exactly the same ring to it. You might want to change your name to fit in a classic ‘all hail’ better.”

“I’ll suffer with people stumbling through it,” Clay muttered. “What’s good here?”

“Everything,” Wilma said. She’d appeared at the side of their table. Wilma was at least sixty, was a champion gum snapper and had worked at every incarnation of the restaurant since it had first opened its door decades ago. Now she stared at Clay, her penciled brows raised.

“So you’re the pretty one everyone’s been telling me about. Nice. I saw your ass in that movie a while back.” She looked at Charlie. “You with him?”

Charlie did her best not to flush or choke. “We’re friends.”

“Too bad. You make a cute couple. Not as cute as me and my Frank, but that’s a high bar.” Her friendly gaze sharpened. “You eat, right?” The question was addressed to Clay. “If you’re not going to eat, then don’t order.”

Charlie opened her mouth, then closed it. Apparently, Jo’s Bar would have been a safer choice.

Wilma turned back to Charlie. “Diet Coke?”

Charlie nodded.

Wilma faced Clay. “And you?”

“Iced tea.”

She scribbled on her pad. “Charlie usually gets the London chicken wrap. It’s more a Baja wrap but what with this place being called The Fox and Hound, that would look stupid on the menu. It’s good. Get that.”

Clay handed her the menu.

“Fries?” Wilma asked no one in particular.