The paper had run with it, and the next headline proclaimed, Caterer Claims Samba Barrett Faked Food Poisoning. Great. That was almost as good for business as the original incident.
This will all work out, she told herself. Just like Cecily had said. When life gives you lemons make lemonade. Or eat chocolate. Except her chocolate stash was gone. Okay, she needed a drink.
She went to her fridge to pull out a Coke. None left. The refrigerator was a giant, near-empty cave, containing a bag with a few spinach leaves, half a tomato, some canned olives and pickles and a dab of Gruyère. At some point she was going to have to go out and get groceries.
Not today, though—at least, not in broad daylight. She’d have to wait until nightfall.
Around ten-thirty, she deemed it safe to leave her apartment. No one jumped up out of the bushes as she dashed to her car, and she convinced herself that she was being paranoid.
She drove to the supermarket; once inside, she hurried through the store, picking up produce, milk and juice. No photographer dogged her, and she let out her breath.
But when Bailey went to pay, the checker kept studying her, all the while trying to appear as if she wasn’t. She could almost hear the checker thinking, Why does this woman look so familiar?
The customer behind her had a copy of the Star Reporter and was eyeballing her, too.
Now another shopper joined them, and he, also, began staring inquisitively.
It was all Bailey could do not to pull out her hair and shriek. Instead, she paid for her groceries and said, “I didn’t poison Samba Barrett. She just got sick. Okay?” She didn’t stick around to find out whether it was okay or not. She grabbed her bag and left.
As the doors swooshed open, she heard one of the gawkers say, “Do you think she did?”
She rushed to her car, tripped in the process and dropped her grocery bag. A head of cabbage went rolling, and she dived to rescue it. As she plopped it back in the bag, she looked over her shoulder to check whether anyone had seen her clumsy moment.
That was when she spotted the man with the camera lurking on the other side of the parking lot. Great. She could see the headlines now. Crazy Caterer Cracks Up at Supermarket.
It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. She hadn’t done anything to anybody. And these buzzards knew it. Frustration and anger finally took over, and she did something she’d never done in her life. She lifted her hand and saluted the rat across the lot with one finger, and it wasn’t her index finger. There. That said it all.
That would probably say it all in the next issue of the Star Reporter, too.
But it didn’t make her feel any better. With a sob, she put her groceries in the car and drove away. How long was this going to go on? How long were people going to look at her as if she were some kind of sicko?
How long was her money going to last?
Not for the first time, Cecily asked herself what she was doing as she walked into the murky interior of The Man Cave on a lovely spring Friday evening. It was, of course, a rhetorical question. She knew what she was doing here. She’d been moving in this direction ever since she’d hit town and encountered Todd Black. It had been only a matter of time until she gave in and agreed to do more than trade insults with him.
It was eight o’clock, and the place was full, mostly with men. The mechanic from Swede’s gas station was playing pool with Billy Williams and one of Billy’s cowboy pals, Jinx Woeburn, as well as a skinny woman with long, stringy hair wearing Daisy Duke shorts, cowgirl boots and a tight tank top. A couple of bikers and their babes stood in a corner, playing darts and drinking beer. The rest of The Man Cave’s patrons were lined up along the bar, draped over drinks, watching a baseball game on the TV that hung over the array of booze bottles. They ranged in age from men in their twenties to grizzled old guys looking to get out of the house for a while. The vibe here sure was different from the bar at Zelda’s. That place buzzed with success and hospitality. The Man Cave was more of an “Aw, what the hell” kind of retreat.
The clack of pool balls acted as a rhythm section for Trace Adkins’s “Honky Tonk Badonkadonk,” which was blasting from speakers in all four corners of the tavern, and that competed with the noise of the baseball game playing on the TV. The place smelled musty, as if no one had thrown open a door or a window in months. The pinball machine, Todd’s excuse for luring her over, sat in the far corner with an out-of-order sign on it. So much for his invitation to come in and show him what sort of pinball wizard she was.
She felt several pairs of male eyes on her as she walked in. This was nothing new. She’d always attracted male attention. But here, in this tavern, she felt as if she were the one in the tight tank top instead of a conservative pink sweater and loose-fitting jeans. This place, it was just so...ugh.
Todd had been behind the bar helping his bartender, Pete, but at the sight of her he came around and started moving toward her. He was dressed casually in jeans, loafers and a black T-shirt. It wasn’t so tight it looked spray-painted on like the one Bill Will was wearing, but it clung enough to let a girl know he was sporting some splendid pecs beneath it.
He smiled at her, sending a jolt through her that ran all the way from her bra to her panties. What was it about this man? Did he have pheromone overload?
She shouldn’t have come. If he kissed her, that would be it; she was bound to do something stupid and get her heart broken for the third time.
Well, she had a great excuse to leave. There was no sense staying if the pinball machine was out of order.
“You’re looking especially pretty tonight,” he greeted her, taking in her pink sweater. “Why do I look at you and think cupcakes?”
She motioned to his black T-shirt. “And why do I look at you and think devil’s food?”
Of course, he wasn’t insulted. Her comment served only to produce a grin on that handsome face of his.
She didn’t give him a chance to say any more. “I might as well go. Your pinball machine is broken.”
“No, it’s not. I just put the sign up there to keep everybody else off it.”
She shook her head. “You could’ve put up a sign that said Reserved.”
One dark eyebrow shot up. “What does this look like, Schwangau?”
Good point. The Man Cave was hardly an upscale restaurant.
He nodded toward the bar. “What would you like to drink?”
“Coke.” If she were at Zelda’s she’d have indulged in some girlie drink like a Chocolate Kiss or a huckleberry martini, but his place was no Zelda’s. Anyway, it was a given that an evening of verbal sparring with Todd Black would require her brain to be in top working order. She wasn’t about to cloud it with alcohol.
“Rum and Coke?”
“Just Coke.”
“You live dangerously, Cecily Sterling.” He held out some coins and said, “Go on over and warm up. I’ll get the Cokes.”
“Thanks. Don’t mind if I do.” She took the coins and walked over to the corner. It was a vintage model from the seventies called Pin Up—a sexy name for a game with a bowling theme. This was going to be fun. By the time Todd joined her she’d studied the landscape of the machine and was ready to rock and roll.
He set their drinks on a nearby empty table and said, “Okay, let’s see how long you can go.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to go first? I’ll last a lot longer than you,” she taunted him.
He leaned in close, his breath tickling her ear. “You have no idea how long I can last.”
That