Just for This Moment (Wishful 4)

Chapter 1

“Well? What do you think?” Myles Stewart sat across the table, trying to read the inscrutable face of his lunch companion.

Simone chased the bite of muffaletta with sweet tea and lifted her arm to get the attention of their waitress.

Corinne wandered over, more sass in the sway of her hips than she’d had when Myles moved to Wishful seven months before. He hadn’t gotten the story on her yet. “Get you a refill on that tea, hon?”

“I’d like to speak to the cook.”

“Something wrong with your sandwich?” Corinne asked.

“I’d just like to speak to the cook,” Simone said evenly.

With a worried frown, the waitress headed back to the kitchen.

“What are you doing, Simone?”

She just lifted a sardonic brow and continued to sip her tea.

Myles glanced back to the kitchen where Mama Pearl Buckley, Goddess of Pie and Gossip and owner of Dinner Belles Diner, stepped through the door. Her brows drew down in thundercloud formation as she looked Simone’s way.

Oh, this is not good. Not good at all.

“Seriously, if something’s wrong, they’ll fix it. There’s no need to call Omar out.”

“Omar, huh?”

Omar Buckley, master of the kitchen and Mama Pearl’s youngest son, pushed into the room, a grease spattered apron stretched across abs that were just as flat as they’d been when he’d played on scholarship as running back for Ole Miss eight years ago—before the knee injury that blew his football career. Myles had heard that sad tale over coffee several months back. Omar’s face was a twin of his mother’s, and he had the shoulders and arms to back up his displeasure.

Shit. The last thing Myles needed was Simone making enemies her first day on the job. Myles could see the headline now. Out-of-Towner Earns Buckley Wrath—Banned From Diner for Life.

The lunch crowd went silent as Omar’s shadow fell over the table. Everyone waited with baited breath to see how things would unfold.

“Somethin’ I can do for you? Ma’am.” This last he added after a pause.

Simone tipped her head back, blatantly scanning him from head to toe and back again, her lovely, mocha-colored face absolutely deadpan. “Omar, I presume?”

“Yeah.”

“I just wanted to shake the hand of the man who made the best damned muffaletta I’ve had outside the French Quarter.”

Myles released an audible breath.

The tension in Omar’s face smoothed into a grin. “That a fact?”

“I lived there for close to ten years, so I’m in a position to know.” She offered her hand. “Simone Grayson.”

Omar took it, his bigger palm swallowing Simone’s. “You visiting?”

“New in town. Glad to know I’ll be able to satisfy at least some of my culinary cravings for N’Awlins.”

Now that the threat was past, Omar made his own lazy survey of Simone, ending with an expression that said he’d be happy to satisfy any craving she had, culinary or otherwise. And Simone wasn’t shutting him down. Wasn’t that interesting?

As the silence stretched out between them, charging like a freaking Duracell, Myles fell back on old social training for proper introductions. “Simone’s the new full-time reporter for The Observer.”

“That right?”

“Omar does a bi-monthly food column for the paper. He rotates out with Tom Thatcher from The Spring House.”

“I look forward to testing out some of your recipes.”

“You do that. And if you have a hankering for somethin’ in particular, you let me know. I might can do somethin’ about it.”

Simone smiled, and Myles was put in mind of a cat that’d cornered a particularly tasty form of prey. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks.”

As Omar headed back to the kitchen, Simone dove into her muffaletta in earnest.

“You need a cold shower?” Myles asked. “Because I’m pretty sure you just cranked up the temperature in here a good fifteen degrees.”

She shrugged. “Let’s just say I’m more than a little glad I let you talk me away from The Times-Picayune.”

“And I consider that one of my greatest coups. I told you you’d love it here.”

His phone dinged, signaling a reminder. Myles slid it from his pocket and glanced at the screen. Call Piper up for a date.

Myles couldn’t stop the grin from stretching ear to ear.

Finally.

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He’d met Piper last September, during auditions for the Wishful Community Theater production of White Christmas. As Bob to her Betty, he’d held her, kissed her, spent hours with her on set and off. And he’d gone more than half crazy for her in the process. But the lovely and talented Piper Parish did not date her co-stars. Some B.S. about the false intimacy of the stage, which had seemed reasonable at the time he’d agreed to it. He’d been waiting three months. Months where they didn’t get to hang out or talk more than the occasional text. Well, and the monthly karaoke night up at Speakeasy Pizzeria. The woman loved her karaoke and damned if he hadn’t gone and learned half the music from Broadway just for the chance to sing with her. But that was more a group thing, not a one-on-one hang out opportunity. So he’d kept waiting. Ninety long, lonely days for her self-imposed edict to pass. And now, time was up.

Hot damn.

Maybe he could swing by the clinic where she worked to ask her in person before he headed back to the paper.