Free The Break-Up Psychic by Emily Hemmer Page B

kitchen window to tack up my order, I glance causally at the man on my left. He’s paunchy and a little sweaty. He reminds me a bit of Daryl Dawg , which does nothing for my appetite. Luanne had been no help in making me feel better about the Daryl debacle or the subsequent rescue by Sam James. Honestly, she seemed rather amused at how the night had turned out. I tell myself I’ll be returning the favor the next time she gets captured by a redneck on the dance floor. But who am I kidding? She’ll love it.
    Daryl’s long lost brother to my left releases a loud, full sounding belch and I swivel my seat more fully to the right, turning my back on him. Tim would never have stepped foot in a place like this. He made it a habit to only dine in establishments that had a wine menu. I always felt so self-conscious in those places, like everyone there knew I was a phony. Before I met him, I’d never eaten at a restaurant that had real linen napkins. For better or worse he opened my eyes to another world, one where everything was always neat and orderly, even the people.
    I never really fit in with that world. My hair was always a little too wild, my clothes a little too off-the-rack. I wish now that Tim had been a bastard about it. I wish he’d been cruel, pointing out the ways in which I didn’t fit into his world. It would make living through the disappointment of what happened between us easier to bear. But he wasn’t awful or unkind, at least not most of the time. There was the occasional patronizing tone when I forgot which fork went with the salad and which went with entrée. The exasperated sigh when I tripped on the sidewalk in front of people. It wasn’t him being mean, exactly. It was more like he was embarrassed by me, and it made me feel ashamed and vulnerable.
    I’m relieved to hear my belching neighbor to the left heave himself off his stool. Peg places my Coke in front of me and tells him to take it easy.
    “Hello, sweet thing, what’re you havin ’ today?” she asks the new patron as he claims the empty stool at the counter.
    “How you doin ’, Peg? I’m just going with the regular, I think.”
    Oh hell, no. I whip my head around at the sound of his deep voice and stare directly into the amused hazel eyes of Sam James. He’s smiling like he’s just told the world’s greatest joke, and I have a feeling I might be the punch line. Sam turns and winks at Peg as I struggle to close my mouth. How is it that he never seems to be caught off guard?
    “Sure thing, handsome,” Peg says, returning his wink and offering me a knowing smile. Something tells me Peg has seen Sam surprise a lady or two in her day.
    “Well, isn’t this a pleasant surprise?” Sam’s wearing a navy blue work shirt with his name embroidered in red on a white oval patch over one pocket. His thick, wavy hair is pulled away from his face into a short ponytail at the back of his head. He doesn’t share the same tired look of the other working men in the diner. If anything, he looks like he just leapt off the page of a Playgirl calendar. Even with that grease smudge on his chin.
    My hand reacts before my brain can stop it, tucking a chunk of hair behind my ear. “Hey, hi, hello, nice to see you,” I stammer. What am I, a Von Trapp?
    “Nice to see you too.” He chuckles. “When I came in and spotted you between two roughnecks, I thought I was going to have to start another bar fight.” His smile is so playful, it makes me a feel a little silly for getting so worked up.
    “Yeah, you do have a tendency to sneak up on me at the worst possible moments.”
    “I’d call them…opportunities,” he says, biting down on his full bottom lip.
    Embarrassed, I turn my eyes down and focus instead on his forearm. His arms are incredibly strong looking. Where Tim’s were sleek and toned from yoga and P90-X, Sam’s arms are thick and muscled. Presumably this is from lifting cars off babies and stopping out-of-control trains before they run off