Free Lost But Not Forgotten by Roz Denny Fox

Even if you won’t sit down and eat with me, take time for a cool drink.”
    “That sounds good. I’m not really hungry.”
    Mitch took stock of the entire package that was Gillian Stevens. She was slender for her height. Too slender. From her remarks, she didn’t strike him as the type to be on a perpetual diet. “Bert fixes great homemade soup. A bowl of that would see you through the rest of your shift.”
    “Soup. Did Flo put you up to this? She’s been talking about Bert’s potato-cheese soup as if it were some magic potion.”
    Mitch clapped a hand across his heart. “I thought this up all on my lonesome. And lonesome is the operative word. Take pity on me, woman. I’ve spent the last three days and nights in the company of horses and a lop-eared pup. I’m wondering if I’m cut out for the solitary life of ranching.”
    Gillian rolled her eyes. “Time to cowboy up. That’s a new term I learned the other day. It means—”
    “I know. It means suck it up and quit whining. Join me for lunch and I’ll be on my best behavior. I promise.” A smile brought deep, appealing creases to his cheeks.
    “You never give up, do you?”
    “Nope. That’s a trait needed by every good cop.”
    “Hmm.” The bell over the door sounded, saving Gillian from getting embroiled in a discussion about what traits made good cops. Was he still one, and lying to her about having quit?
    “We’ve talked so long I have customers,” she murmured, pulling the order pad from her apron pocket.
    “We’ve talked five minutes. You get a lunch hour. Let Flo take their order.”
    As if she heard her name, Flo appeared in the kitchen doorway, menus under her arm and three glasses of water in her hand. “I’ll catch that table, Gilly. Bert’s already dished you up a nice bowl of soup. He’s putting the finishing touches on Mitch’s burger. All you have to do is pour whatever you want to drink, sit and take a load off your feet.”
    “Tell me again this isn’t a conspiracy,” Gillian muttered, half to herself and half to Mitch.
    “She must be psychic. Honestly,” he said, “I didn’t prearrange anything.”
    “Bert just happened to know you wanted a burger?”
    “I hate admitting how predictable I am about food. Ask him. He’ll tell you I ate here an average of three days a week for six or so years. Rain or shine, I ordered a burger.”
    “I don’t know why I believe you, but I do. It’s too bizarre to be a lie. You win. Go wash. I’ll join you for lunch.”
    Mitch felt like clicking his heels together. He was careful not to act too triumphant. On the way to the men’s room and back, he tried to figure out arguments that might convince her to go with him to Ethan’s on Saturday night.
    “You’re right about this soup,” she said, flashing a smile as he returned and slid into the booth. “It’s delicious.”
    “Now that you know I’m so wise, we’ll save time if you trust everything I say.”
    She paused, her spoon halfway to her lips. “Do I have gullible stamped on my forehead? I don’t think so.”
    Mitch grinned around a bite of hamburger. After he’d chewed and swallowed, he changed the subject. “Flo calls you Gilly. I like that. It fits you. Can anyone call you that?”
    It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him she went by her middle name of Noelle. She hadn’t realized how hard it would be to watch her words in personal conversations. Shrugging, she focused her attention on opening a packet of crackers. “Suit yourself. I answer to a broad range of names.” She gave him a brief smile.
    His brows drew together quizzically. “Oh. I guess you mean customers yell, hey you, miss or waitress—things like that. Before I became a detective, when I still wore a uniform every day, I got called a lot of other things, too,” he said wryly.
    “You mention your old job a lot. Maybe you shouldn’t have quit.”
    Unconsciously, he rubbed his thigh. “Cats may have nine lives. People don’t. I woke up in