Free 9781631050275TheirPerfectMatchMarshNC by Alela Marsh Page B

about the hunger that had gnawed at her stomach for hours. It returned in a rush when she noticed the chalkboard advertising a daily special of Yankee Pot Roast with homemade bread and potatoes included.
    Zane chose a booth at the back of the room and guided her toward it, his arm still tight against hers. A few of the patrons, most of them elderly men, glanced up as they walked by. Molly heard one of them whisper to the other, but she couldn’t make out what they said. Apparently, Zane hadn’t exaggerated when he’d said that the people around here tended to look out for one another. Someone with a different point of view might describe their interest less charitably.
    She surveyed the other patrons’ flannel shirts and work boots with dismay. “I think I’m a little overdressed,” she confided as they settled into the booth. She was also the only non-white patron, but mentioning that seemed a bit crass, not to mention obvious.
    Zane winked. “Don’t be silly. You look beautiful, and that fits in anywhere as far as I’m concerned.”
    He took her coat and draped it carefully over the back of her bench. He did the same with his own leather jacket, exposing his muscular forearms for Molly’s admiration.
    Her pulse began to thud in her ears. In an effort to distract herself, Molly scanned the walls. They were decorated with athletic memorabilia, the space above each booth devoted to a different sport. Directly over their heads hung a laminated hockey stick, a tiny plaque underneath identifying it as belonging to a professional player she’d never heard of, though her ignorance in that field covered quite a bit of territory. A bronzed baseball glove adorned the next booth, which sat empty, and just beyond that she could see what looked like a pair of ice skates.
    The display that captured her attention most though, was the one that occupied the brick wall facing her. This one featured a framed, black-and-white publicity shot of a bantam-weight boxer, stripped to the waist with his gloved hands raised in front of him. His dark hair was slicked back 1950s style, a single loose strand draped across his lowered brow. His thin lips crinkled in a carefully posed sneer. An autograph was scribbled across the bottom of the photo, though Molly was too far away to make out what it said. To the left of the frame hung a pair of weathered brown boxing gloves, apparently the same ones featured in the picture.
    Something about the picture touched a spark of recognition in her, though she couldn’t imagine why. She knew even less about boxing than she did about hockey.
    “Why don’t I get us some coffee?” Zane suggested. He waved toward the grill, and moments later Molly found herself staring at what could only have been a garden gnome sprung magically to life. Tiny cataract-blurred eyes squinted down at her from a round face seasoned with cavernous wrinkles.
    “Flinty, this is Miss Grayson,” Zane introduced her. “She deserves a lot better than that greasy mush you call food, but I decided this joint could use a little class.”
    “Yeah? If it’s so bad, why are you in here every morning, noon, and night?”
    Zane shrugged as he bit back a smile. “Because it’s cheap and convenient, and I developed a tolerant stomach at sea.” The gnome’s cackling response showed that he didn’t take Zane’s ribbing seriously. Instead, he reached over and poured two cups of strong-smelling coffee for them. His rolled-up shirtsleeves allowed Molly an unobstructed view of the intricate tattoos decorating both arms. Meanwhile, Zane turned his attention back to her. “Molly, meet Jeremiah Flint, otherwise known as Flinty, the owner of this fine establishment. “
     Flinty gave a good-natured snort and propped an open menu in front of her. “You get tired of this smooth-talkin’ seadog, Missy, you just let me know. I might not be as young and handsome as he is, but I know how to treat a woman right.”
    Zane closed his menu without