Page 8 of Gatsby's Starlet
She studied me another second, then nodded. “I’ll bring a hair tie.”
Her eyes on me did something I wasn’t naming.
She walked toward the door and I watched her without meaning to, just did, the bell chiming as warm Charleston air slid in around her while Ruby leaned in to whisper something, Evie nodding before slipping the receipt carefully into her purse like it mattered.
Then she was gone.
The room came back loud, music, laughter, chairs scraping, and I dragged a rag across the bar even though it didn’t need it.
Chain slid in beside me. “Well.”
“What.”
“You’re starin’ at the door like it owes you money.”
“Shut up.”
“Ruby’s sister?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve never seen you that interested.”
I didn’t argue. “I like her,” I said, not bothering to play it down. “She’s got something.”
“Breakfast?”
“Yeah.”
“You hate breakfast.”
“I don’t hate breakfast.”
“You eat once a day and call it efficient.”
He wasn’t wrong.
Later, outside, gravel crunched under my boots as I stepped away from the noise, the night air cooler against skin that still felt too warm, and I told myself it was nothing, just a woman, just breakfast, just a girl who cares too much about teal paint and cast iron.
My phone buzzed.
I let it sit a second. It buzzed again.
I pulled it out. Unknown number.
Evie:Is the griddle seasoned properly, or am I walking into disappointment?
A grin pulled at my mouth before I could stop it.
Me:It’s older than both of us. You’ll approve.
Three dots almost immediately.
Evie:Good. I don’t trust shiny kitchens. They feel dishonest.
Dishonest. Who talks like that about a kitchen?
Me:Tomorrow. 9. I’ll pick you up. What’s your address?
