Big City Little Rebel

ChapterSeventeen

Beau

The bell above the door rang as he entered Spurs. Like Pavlov’s dog, he was trained to know that sound meant good things for him. It came with seeing the woman who had stolen his heart. And it also came with her smile and a soul-stripping kiss. But today, his little blonde rebel didn’t race out of the kitchen with an arm full of plates.

“Have a seat, doll. I’ll be with you in a minute,” said the brunette who dashed by with two plates of burgers and fries. He checked his watch. Four o’clock—Bobbie should have been here. A peek at his phone showed no messages.

He followed the waitress back to the counter. “Where’s Bobbie?”

“She called in, said she got caught up with something. I’m Blaire, and you must be the boyfriend.”

Something about her knowing about him made everything seem real—solid—concrete. Bobbie was his. He was hers, and it filled him with pride to know she was sharing their relationship with the world.

“I’m Beau.” He held out his hand, and Blaire shook it. “Did she say where she was?” Bobbie had been vague this morning, but he thought it had something to do with school. Now he wondered whether she was up to no good—again.

“No. You’ll have to ask her.” The bell above the door rang, and Blaire was off and running to wait on her new table of customers.

Beau left the diner, confused. He dialed Bobbie’s phone on his way to his apartment, but it went straight to voicemail. Moments later, he received a text message.

In a meeting. I’m not working tonight. I’ll pick up dinner. I have something to tell you. See you around six. Love, Bobbie.

He read the message twice. She was definitely up to something, and it looked like he’d have to wait to find out what that something was. Knowing Bobbie and her predisposition for finding trouble made him nervous.

What are you up to? Good, instead of no good, I hope. I have something to tell you, too. I love you, Bobbie Cruise. Come home to me soon. Love, Beau.

Just before six, there was a thumping at the door. When he pulled it open, Bobbie was standing there with several brown bags, looking like she was intent on feeding the homeless again. The aroma of garlic and butter wafted through the air.

He picked up two bags that sat precariously on top of a silver foil-covered pan. Zeppo’s Italian Eatery was written in big red letters across the top.

“Italian?”

“Yep.” She breezed past him and placed the pan on the table.

They moved in what looked like a finely choreographed dance. He grabbed the plates. She grabbed the silverware. He got the wine. She got the coffee mugs. He pulled out a spatula and a serving spoon from the drawer. She reached for the napkins. He pulled out her chair. She sat and sighed contentedly. He kissed her as if he hadn’t seen her in weeks and pulled up a chair beside her.

“Good day?” she asked.

“Yes, but we’ll talk about my day later.” He stood back and stared at her. She looked amazing, not her everyday fabulous, because Bobbie was dressed up tonight. She looked like she’d come from the boardroom with her black slacks and crisp, white, tailored shirt. She tried to contain her hair in a ponytail, but the layered edges had broken free as if the wild side of Bobbie was trying to escape. “What about you? Did you have a court date or something?” It wasn’t out of the question. Bobbie found trouble, or maybe it sought her out.

“No, I had a presentation at school and then a bunch of other stuff I had to take care of. I’m following my boyfriend’s advice and using my resources for good.”

“That sounds interesting. Tell me.” He pulled the lid from the pan. Steam rose from the lasagna she had brought home. Home. It was a comforting thought to find that feeling so soon after leaving what he’d considered would always be his home. They say once a New Yorker, always a New Yorker, but whoever said that hadn’t met his girl. Home was wherever Bobbie lived.

“Let’s eat first. I’m starving.” She spooned up large helpings of lasagna and pulled garlic bread and cannoli from the brown bags while he poured the red wine into coffee mugs.

“I need to get us some wine glasses.” He picked up the mug and sipped the crimson liquid inside.

“I don’t know.” She held up her mug. “This is us. We’re coffee mugs—simple, sturdy, and steadfast.”

“You forgot sexy. We are definitely sexy.” He took a bite of the lasagna and nearly died. It tasted exactly like his favorite lasagna from Guido’s in Little Italy.

“Silly,” she said, continuing with the S words.

“Smart,” he volleyed.

“Sassy.” She looked over her cup as if to say, “beat that.”

“Skinny.” He spooned another helping onto her plate.