Maggie Shayne - Kiss Me, Kill Me

“That is an eminently practical suggestion,” Carrie said. “I like the way you think.”

“Thank you,” he said, and then he stood there, silent for a moment, shifting from one foot to the other, until he finally said, “Well, I guess I’ll see you there, then?”

“Perfect. I’ll see you there.”

He took out his keys, looked at them, looked at her, looked at his car, then turned and walked away.

Being awkward with women, she told herself, was not a character flaw. It was actually endearing in a way.

And yet it wasn’t the upcoming dinner on her mind as Carrie drove through the tiny, quiet town toward the falls and the restaurant. It was Gabriel Cain. The quiet, unpretentious, apparently famous songwriter was not at all what he had first seemed. Not at all.

And she wondered what other facets of his personality remained as yet unrevealed. She was dying to talk to him, to listen to him talk back.

Not to mention use Google to see what came up.

She wished to the gods that Ambrose Peck was as appealing to her as the songwriter. But sex appeal wasn’t everything. She knew that. And in every other way, Ambrose was exactly her type.

Just like the last respectable, solid, intellectual she’d dated had seemed to be, she told herself, though she tried not to listen. She’d wasted a couple of months on that jackass.

Oh, well. Live and learn.

Ambrose didn’t wait for her in the parking lot. She found that a little odd but shrugged it off as she got out of her car and looked around. The building was made of darkly stained, rough-hewn barn beams and glass, and not much else. It made for the best view in town. Not seeing Ambrose anywhere, she went on inside.

She spotted him at a table near the back, perusing the menu. She noticed his hands and the ring he wore, a figure eight lying on its side—the sign for infinity, she thought. Interesting choice. Nodding her intention to the hostess, Carrie wound her way between tables to join him.

He must have heard her footsteps, because he lowered the menu and rose to his feet. “Ah, there you are.”

“I was only a minute or two behind you,” she said.

“Oh, I know. I just thought I’d go ahead and get us a table. You did say you were short on time tonight.”

Carrie pasted a smile over her momentary irritation and nodded. “That was…thoughtful. Thanks.” She pulled out her chair and sat down. Ambrose sat, as well, and picked up his menu again.

“Do you have any idea what’s good here?” he asked.

“Oh, everything’s pretty good. I like the broiled haddock a lot. Their tartar sauce is—”

“That would be an option if I were in the mood for mercury poisoning.”

“—homemade.” She blinked twice. Had he just criticized her for saying she liked haddock?

“As a doctor, I would think you would be aware of the damage heavy metal contamination can do.”

“Oh, I am. I think fish is fine in moderation.”

“I prefer not to take that chance.” He never took his eyes off the menu. “How is the pasta?”

“Good. Better if you let them grate some fresh lead over it.”

“Excuse me?” He lowered the menu, looking over the top of it at her.

“Lead. Heavy metal.” She shrugged. “It was a joke.”

“Oh?” His brows rose. Then he smiled. “Oh! I see now. I’m afraid I don’t have a very highly developed sense of humor,” he confessed, shaking his head.

“No!” She pressed a hand to her chest. “I never would have guessed.”

He blinked at her. “Now you’re being sarcastic.”

“See? You do so have a sense of humor,” she said with a smile.

He shrugged. “Pasta, then,” he announced, and, setting the menu on the edge of the table, he looked around in search of the waitress. When he spotted one, wobbling toward another table bearing a huge tray full of food, he held his hand up in the air as if hailing a taxi.

“She’s busy, Ambrose. Besides, I haven’t decided what I’m having yet.”

“I took it you were having the haddock,” he said.

“I said I liked it, not that I was having it tonight.”

He frowned at her. “You sound upset. Have I done something to irritate you, Carrie?”

She met his eyes, saw that they were concerned and softened her tone. “Impatience irritates me. I see a lot of it at the hospital.”

“I see. I was only trying to speed things along. You said you were short on time, so—”

“Why don’t you let me worry about managing my time, Ambrose? You can relax and enjoy the meal. Okay?”

He tipped his head to one side, seemingly puzzled, but said, “Okay.”

“Good.”

By then a different waitress had come over to their table, and Carrie could tell by the look on her face that she’d seen Ambrose’s insistent signal.

“Are you ready to order?”

“No, as it turns out,” Ambrose said.

The waitress lifted her brows, and Carrie said, “Yes, we are. I’ll have the haddock.” She closed her menu and handed it to the girl, certain she knew her from somewhere. She’d probably treated her at the hospital or seen her at a soccer game or some other school function.

“How is the pasta sauce made?” Ambrose asked, reopening his menu.

“From scratch,” the girl—Wendi, according to her name tag—said. “Tomatoes, peppers, onions, garlic, rosemary, basil—the usual stuff.”

“MSG?” he asked.

The girl sent Carrie a look. Carrie shrugged helplessly, and then Ambrose looked her way, and she went still and tried to look innocent.

“I’ll have to go ask the chef,” Wendi said finally, and then she hurried away. Moments later she was back. “No MSG,” she reported.

“Hmm. That’s good to know.” Ambrose held the menu open a bit longer, then closed it and said, “And what about the pork loin? How is that prepared?”

The girl pointed at the paragraph beside the entrée on the menu and read aloud. “Made with an apple-mint sauce, and served piping hot and brimming with flavor.”

“That much I already knew. But how is it cooked? Baked, broiled, sautéed?”

“Nuclear fusion, I believe.”

Carrie choked on a laugh, then quickly pressed the cloth napkin to her mouth as if she really had been choking.

Ambrose blinked up at the waitress, not so much as cracking a smile. “Pardon?”

“I’ll go ask.” She hurried away again.

Ambrose shook his head and muttered about the quality of service these days. Carrie was beginning to wish she’d done what she wanted to do and stayed home tonight.

Wendi returned. “The pork is broiled, sir. No MSG, either. I asked. There’s no MSG in anything we serve.”

“Fine.” Ambrose perused the menu some more. For a guy who’d been set on the pasta and waving impatiently a few minutes earlier, he certainly was taking his time now.

Finally, as the girl stood there noticing that her other tables were in need of attention, Ambrose snapped the menu closed and said, “I’ll have the veal.”

The girl scribbled. “Is that it?”

“I think you’d better bring me a diet cola,” Carrie said. “And put a shot of rum in it, will you?”

Wendi smiled for the first time and nodded. “Got it.”

And then she was gone.

“My goodness, you would never know the girl is paid by the hour, the way she rushed us,” Ambrose said. Then he placed both palms on the table and looked at her. “But that’s neither here nor there, is it? Now that the unpleasant part of the evening is out of the way, Carrie, tell me about yourself.”

She lifted her brows, because he was smiling and, she thought, trying to be friendly now. “Oh, there’s not much to tell.”

“Of course there is. You’re a doctor. That’s fascinating in and of itself. And a single mother, too. Tell me, how did that come about?”