“They’re fourteen dollars, aren’t they?”
Phyllis nodded.
Lauren sighed and held her hand out for the bill. “Let me go talk about it to him. Find out what was wrong.”
Sighing inwardly, she headed for the corner booth where the customer was sitting.
He looked up at her as she approached. His gaze met hers, held.
Lauren blinked, taken aback, suddenly understanding why Bette had nicknamed him Spartacus.
He was intense.
And intensely good-looking.
“Hi, I’m Lauren Summer. I’m the manager,” she said crisply, annoyed that she suddenly felt self-conscious and warm. “I understand you weren’t happy with the grillades?”
“It was fine,” he drawled, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet, his soft knit shirt growing tighter, hugging the thick plane of his chest. “And the biscuits were great.”
He was solid. Built. Lauren hated that she noticed. “What was wrong with the grillades?”
“They were fine. It’s not a big deal—”
“Fine isn’t good,” Lauren interrupted as he opened his wallet and drew out two twenties. “Fine is just fine. Fine means possibly passable. Which isn’t good enough for me. I want our food to be excellent.”
He looked up, smiled, creases fanning from his eyes. “The biscuits were.”
“Biscuits are easy,” she retorted impatiently.
“Actually, they’re not as easy as people think.” He dropped the twenties on the table, and slid out, and stood, towering over her. “And your biscuits were really good. Next time I’ll just have biscuits and gravy and I’ll be a happy man.”
She didn’t know why her heart did a funny double beat. He had an accent, not French like Matthieu’s but Southern, and it made an impression. Flustered, she glanced down at his bill, deciphered Phyllis’s scrawl. “You didn’t try our gravy. So you might not like it either.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “Then I guess I’ll find out next time, won’t I?” He slipped his wallet back into his pocket before walking out, leaving Lauren standing there, staring, jaw open.
He came in again the next day, at approximately the same time. This time Bette seated him in her section, wanting to wait on Spartacus herself.
Lauren stayed in her section, successfully avoiding him, but she did make note of what he ordered—sweet-potato pecan waffles, scrambled eggs, spicy sausage, grits—and if he ate it.
He did. All of it.
After he paid his bill, Bette headed straight for Lauren. “He told me to tell you that it was fine,” she said.
Lauren wasn’t sure if she should be amused or insulted. “Fine?” she repeated.
Bette nodded. “But he did say if you’re wanting to improve, the waffles would be a smidge better if you toasted the pecans a little more.”
“He said that?”
Bette waved a twenty under Lauren’s nose and grinned. “Yes, and he left me this for a tip.”
“Well, I guess you can retire now,” Lauren said, remembering that he’d dropped the two twenties yesterday before she’d even given him the bill, even as she replayed his comments over in her head.
Everything was fine . . .
But if you’re wanting to improve . . .
Was he serious or teasing?
“If he comes back, I’m waiting on him tomorrow,” Phyllis said, joining them. “Not because I want the tip, but because he’s just easy on the eyes.”
“He is a handsome one,” Bette agreed. “And he seems familiar. I keep thinking he’s a professional athlete. Quarterback or wide receiver.”
Phyllis thought it over. “Now that you mention it, he does look familiar, but he’s not with the 49ers. I know my Niners.”
“Could be baseball,” Bette said. “He’s got those nice legs.”
“A great butt.”
Lauren groaned. “Enough!”
“Don’t act like you didn’t notice.” Phyllis wagged her finger at her. “We all saw you yesterday, staring.”
“I wasn’t staring!” Lauren protested.
Phyllis and Bette exchanged glances.
“You were, too,” Bette said, slipping her tip money into her pocket. “And it’s perfectly okay, because he’s a fine-looking man and you’re a pretty woman—”
“I’m not interested in dating a customer,” Lauren interrupted, perfectly aware that Phyllis and Bette might be flirtatious, but at sixty-two and fifty-seven respectively, they were experienced, mature, hardworking waitresses who talked a good game but never took it too far. “So if you two want to fight over him—even though you, Phyllis, are married, and you, Bette, have a boyfriend—be my guest.”