The marshal calmly took the bottle from her, easily twisting off the top. It made a cheerful little pop.
Glaring at him, choosing to ignore the supercharged hum that’d passed between them when their hands brushed, Gracie took the bottle back, giving it a good, hard shake. She was just about to reach for her knife to stick it inside, when he took the bottle again, thumping the side and bottom with the heel of his hand.
Once a thick, red river of ketchup pooled on her plate, he calmly put the lid on the bottle, then reached past her to set it alongside a squeeze mustard bottle, sugar and napkins.
“I could’ve done that,” she said, blocking his all-male scent of leather and cars and some other intriguing something she couldn’t begin to identify, but had the craziest urge to explore. “I’m a chef. I have my own ketchup trick.”
“Did I say you couldn’t have done it?”
“No, but your tone implied it.”
“What tone?”
“That one,” she said, plucking pickles from her burger. “You used it just now. It plainly said you think I’m incompetent, and that I need a big, strong man to look after me and make my ketchup come out. But you know what? I made it this far on my own, and—” Startled, she jumped.
“Here you go,” the waitress said, having caught Gracie off guard when she’d abruptly rounded the corner. She set a plate loaded with another burger and fries on the table. “Need anything else?”
“No, thank you,” Gracie said. Why, oh why, when she’d flinched, hadn’t she headed for the wall instead of her assigned marshal? Who actually, now that she’d gotten a better look at him, was disturbingly hot. The whole right side of her body still tingled.
But there were no tingles in Normalville! Especially when she had no want nor need for any men in her life—let alone hot ones!
“Actually,” the marshal said to the waitress, “I wouldn’t mind a Coke when you get a second.”
“Be right back.” On her return trip to the kitchen, the rail-thin redhead sang along with the jukebox.
“Mind passing the ketchup?” the marshal asked.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Gracie said, careful to set the stupid bottle in front of him, rather than risk another touching encounter by passing it directly into his waiting hand. “How if I’m skitterish enough to jump when a waitress comes around, that I must be a real head case. But I’ll have you know I didn’t flinch just a second ago because I was scared or nervous or anything. Flinching is a natural reaction often encountered during the latter stages of a woman’s third trimester.”
“Uh-huh,” he said before taking a bite of his burger.
“You don’t believe me?”
He just sat there chewing.
She cut her burger in half, then took a bite, only to wince before swallowing. “I can’t eat this,” she said.
“Why?”
“It’s cold. I don’t usually eat foods like…” Making a face, she waved at the offensive burger. “Plus, I have a texture issue about cold grease. Feels funny on my tongue.”
“Take mine,” he said, switching plates. “It’s still good and hot.”
“I couldn’t,” she said.
“Afraid I’ve got cooties? Want me to cut off the part where I bit?”
“Of course not,” she said. And to prove it, she took a bite right beside his, only to then wish she’d have just stuck with her own cold burger.
The slow grin he cast her way made a mess of her earlier assumption that the man was her enemy. How long had it been since someone was truly nice to her? Sacrifice-his-own-hot-burger nice? A while. But that didn’t mean now she should suddenly go soft.
If she let this marshal take her back to Portland, she’d be stuck in some so-called safe house for who knew how long before Vicente’s case went to trial. Seeing how now that he’d vanished, he couldn’t exactly be put on the stand. Her chance for winning the CAI’s prize would be gone, along with her and her baby girl’s future.
Keeping this in mind, she concentrated on finishing her marshal’s burger and planning a new escape. She’d tried living in Chaosville and found it not to her liking.
“Hate to interrupt you,” she said while he downed the last of her burger. “But I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”
“Again?” He sighed.
“Sorry.” She flashed him her brightest smile. “Another pregnancy thing.”
“It’s okay,” he said, sliding out of the booth. “But just in case you’re thinking of trying anything, I’m going with you. Not only are you a key witness, but whether you want to acknowledge it or not, you’re in danger.”
“That’s just plain silly,” she said, thickening her accent. “Vicente would nevuh really hurt me. And now that you’ve found me, where could I possibly go? Now, be a good boy and please hand me my purse.”
He cautiously did as she’d asked.
“Thank you. I won’t be but a second.”
“That’s mighty considerate of you, darlin’, but just in case you get a hankering to take another drive, how about leaving me your keys?”
“Y-you can’t be serious,” she said. “After hearing about those other men trailing me, you honestly think I’d willingly leave your side?”
“Keys.” He held out his hand, wagged his fingers.
With a huffy sigh, she dug through her purse, handing them to him.
“Thanks.”
“You’re not welcome.”
While Gracie headed for the ladies’ room, Beau sat on the opposite side of the booth so he could have a better view. He chuckled to recall the expression on her face when he’d asked for her keys. Boy, he’d really caught her off guard with that one. Of course she’d been planning another escape. Running straight for that cooking thing.
Seeing her, being near her, brought to mind memories of how things had been with Ingrid. The luminescence of pending motherhood. The luster of her hair. The rattler-type snap when coming between her and her food. How long had it been since he’d recalled happy memories about that time?
Still grinning, Beau shook his head.
The waitress approached. “Need any pie?”
“You know,” Beau said, “that’d really hit the spot. Got anything chocolate?”
“Chocolate cream guaranteed to curl your toes.”
“In that case,” he said with a wink. “Better get two. My friend doesn’t like to share.”
She laughed. “When it comes to pie, I don’t blame her.”
The pie came, and in Beau’s case, went. The waitress had been right—it was damned good.
He eyed the bathroom. Gracie had been in there awhile. Should he call the waitress back over and ask her to check on his Southern belle?
He did just that.
And when the redhead returned with a funny look, telling him the ladies’ room was empty, if Beau had had three legs he would’ve kicked himself all the way back to Portland. How could he be so gullible?
How could Ms. Sherwood