Free The Summer Girls by Mary Alice Monroe

tourists went back to their plates and a soft buzz of talking resumed.
    “I’m the world’s worst waitress,” Carson whined.
    Ashley chuckled as she swept. “Well, you’re not the best, but you’ve just started. Don’t worry. You’ll get the hang of it. I’ll finish up here. Why don’t you bring a menu to thatguy who just sat down in your section,” she said with a nod of her head.
    Carson reached over to grab a menu.
    “Put on your pretty smile,” Ashley teased. “It’s Mr. Predictable.”
    “Stop it,” Carson said with a smirk.
    “He always sits in your section.”
    “That means he likes the window, not me.”
    “Yeah, well you don’t see his moon eyes following you when you walk away.”
    “Really?” Carson asked, mildly surprised. Not that she should have been. She was accustomed to the glances of men, but her radar was off and she’d not registered this one. She turned her head to slyly check out the man in question. He was tall and lean, a little too angular, and had the slightly disheveled T-shirt–shorts–and–sandals look of a local. His hair was dark brown with curls that went askew under his cap. She couldn’t remember the color of his eyes, couldn’t, for that matter, remember much about him.
    “He’s not my type,” Carson said.
    “You mean he’s not the cool Hollywood dream boy you usually hang out with in L.A.?”
    Carson had told Ashley about some of the men she’d dated in L.A.—mostly actors and filmmakers. She got a kick out of seeing Ashley’s eyes widen, impressed with the roster of men who were either movie star good-looking or very cool. Mr. Predictable was neither.
    Carson smirked and tightened the strings of her apron around her uniform, a green Dunleavy’s T-shirt. “Why don’tyou take his order? He’s more your type anyway . . . the scruffy good ol’ boy.”
    Ashley sighed lustily. “He’s cute. But I’ve got a boyfriend. I’m off the market. Besides”—Ashley put her hand to her heart with an exaggerated expression of horror—“I couldn’t do that to the poor man. He’d be so disappointed if he saw me come to the table instead of you.”
    “Well, he can look all he likes. I’m not looking for romance.”
    “Honey,” Ashley said with a smirk before sauntering away with her broom and trash, “we’re always lookin’ for romance.”
    When Carson approached the table the dark-haired man turned from the window to her. This time Carson looked into his eyes. They were a deep chocolate color that had the power to melt when he locked gazes with someone, as he did now. He was taking her measure, she could tell, as though he were surprised that she’d finally taken notice of him.
    “Well hey,” she said with an engaging smile. She’d had a lot of luck with this smile over the years and expected results. “Nice to see you’re back.”
    He arched a brow, amused. “Yeah, well, I like it here,” he said, withholding a smile. “Good food. Nice atmosphere.”
    “Uh-huh,” she replied. “What’ll it be? Wait, let me guess. The black-’n’-blue burger.”
    He glanced up to look at her from over the top of the menu. “You noticed?”
    “Well, you do order the same thing every day.”
    “Why change a good thing?” he replied, closing the menu and handing it to her.
    “Do you want a beer with that?”
    “Sweet tea,” they both said at the same time, and laughed.
    “Coming right up.”
    Looking over her shoulder, she smiled, then chuckled quietly, noting that Ashley had been right. His dreamy gaze was following her. He was indeed Mr. Predictable.
    A short while later she carried the pub’s signature burger to the table. He looked up from his sheaf of papers and smiled too brightly when she approached. Not wanting to encourage him, she didn’t smile in return and placed the food down without ceremony.
    “Sure you don’t want a beer?” she asked, all business. “We have Guinness on tap.”
    “No, thanks. I don’t drink.”
    “Oh,”