“Keep your voice down,” I hissed at her. They’d all find out soon enough, and I would be subject to their pitying glances. Everyone had finally started treating me normally again, and I didn’t want to go back to how things had been after the show ended.
“I have a question for you,” Whitney said to me.
“Just one? I have like forty-three!” Nicole said in a stage whisper.
“Hey, Whit, how are your kids doing?” I asked while wiping down the counter. I didn’t want to hear her question. Or Nicole’s forty-three.
“Abundant and devious, like always.”
“You’re pregnant with your fourth, right?” Nicole jumped in, smiling at me as she did so. I appreciated the solidarity, but it wouldn’t work. Whitney was never deterred for long.
“Yes, number four. And yes, I’ve only been married for five years. Which is why I’m never having sex with my husband ever again.”
“Liar,” Nicole said with a laugh. “You wouldn’t last a week. I’ve seen the two of you together.”
“Shh,” Whitney said with a nod in my direction. “Don’t forget we’ve got virgin ears over here.”
“I am going to school to become a veterinarian,” I reminded her. “Regardless of my personal experience or lack thereof, I am aware of how all different kinds of babies are made.”
The bells that rang whenever the front door opened made their characteristic jingle, and in walked Rafe. A collective silence fell over the diner. We almost never had strangers here, and especially not ones who looked like he did.
We made eye contact, and my heart fell into my feet. He nodded at me and then headed over to an empty booth.
In my section.
“Who is that?” Mrs. Mathison asked her friend. She must have had her hearing aid turned down again and didn’t realize how loud her voice was.
Nicole gasped. “Blasphemy! How can she not know who he is?”
Rafe opened a laptop on the table and began to type, either deliberately ignoring or completely unaware of the stares.
“Are we going to talk about the prince in the room?” Nicole whispered.
“Whitney, I can’t wait on him,” I told her in a low voice. “Please.”
“You do know that I’m eight months pregnant, right?” She gestured at her large belly.
“Yes. I’m sorry. I’m being selfish,” I said, feeling chastened. I would just have to be a big girl and get this over with. I took a deep breath, trying to calm my jittery nerves. I desperately wanted a Three Musketeers bar.
She put her hand out to stop me from leaving. “I’m totally screwing with you. I’ve got this.”
Whit walked over with what I called her “don’t mess with me, I’m a mom” face. She dropped a menu on the table. “What do you want?”
If he was surprised by her change in demeanor from earlier, he didn’t show it. “I’ll take whatever you think is good. Thank you.” He handed the menu back to her without reading it. She glared at him and came back behind the counter. She told the kitchen to make him a turkey club.
“His voice is like music,” Nicole sighed. “And he’s just how I like my chocolate. Dark and rich.” She sighed again until she caught my expression. “Um, I mean, he’s your prince. I get that.”
“He’s not my prince,” I said. “I don’t own him.”
“So does that mean you’re done with him?”
“Nicole!” I protested.
“I know, I know. We hate him and I can’t ever date him. But if anything ever happens to you, I’m jumping over your open grave to get at him.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Mathison called out. “That’s the nice young man who sent us all those flowers.”
At that, Rafe turned to me, the question in his eyes evident. I looked down, hoping my cheeks weren’t turning red because he had found out. When he was sending me all those apology flowers, I obviously couldn’t accept them. I didn’t want them. I could have sent them back, but I decided he deserved to pay somehow. So instead I told the delivery guy to bring them to the widows in our town. I figured they would get more use out of them than I would.
“I’m afraid I’m going to get second-degree burns on my corneas just from looking at him,” Nicole said.
The counter had never been cleaner, but I needed to keep my hands busy. “Then stop looking at him.”
“I should. He’s a total Jules Verne, anyway.”
That made me stop. “A nineteenth-century science-fiction writer?”
“No, Miss Literal,” she said with a smile. “He’s a good twenty thousand leagues out of my league.”