The teen stuffed a fry oozing cheese in her mouth, then another, taking her time chewing. Nola stayed quiet, giving her time to think and gather her words rather than pushing.
Finally Lauren swallowed and reached for her fork to stab up some of the chili…or rather just stab at the pile and not lift anything. “But I’m like him. If something hurts, I just get right up in that hurt’s face and stand it down. I’m not quitting. I want my dad in my life and not that lame-butt stepdad my mother has picked out for me. So here I am.”
“You are a lot like Rick.”
“Tough luck for me, huh?” Lauren dropped her fork with a clank.
“No, Lauren.” Nola reached across to take her hand before the kid could wrap her arms around herself defensively again. “It’s the luckiest break you ever got. You’re a fighter and a winner.”
“You met me, like, two days ago.” She didn’t hold hands back but she didn’t pull away, the long-fingered hand with nails painted alternating colors of pink and green to match the teen’s shirts—two of the three tank tops, anyway.
“I’m a quick people reader.” She squeezed Lauren’s hand with a reassurance she hoped the girl would accept and believe. “And your father has told me a lot about you.”
Her eager look just about tore Nola’s heart in two. Then Lauren went all blasé teen again. “So, like, what did he say?”
She started to share the things she knew Lauren wanted to hear, things that would make the girl like her as the bearer of good news… Then she stopped. This wasn’t her place. As much as she wanted to bond with Rick’s daughter, it would have to be done another way. She knew the right words to say now.
“Sweetie, you and your father have spoken through intermediaries and telephones far too often, in my opinion. If you want to know what he said, you should go right to him and ask him. Not call him. Talk to him face to face. Because he doesn’t use a lot of words, but those eyes of his speak darn near soliloquies.”
“Soliloquies? My old man? Are you sure we’re talking about the same person? Rick DeMassi, big fella. Weight lifter, military dude who thinks conversation involves ‘pass the potatoes, please.’”
“That would be him. My guess would be if you looked at him when he said that, you would see those big brown eyes saying he was sorry for all the meals he missed.”
And that was as much as she would reveal. Hopefully enough to nudge the girl into a real, face-to-face conversation with her father.
She’d tried her best to help them both rebuild their family. But would they have a place for her?
Rick thunked himself down in a chair beside Nola, not a hundred percent comfortable with the fact that his teenage daughter was dancing with the lieutenants. But they weren’t putting hands on her. Their dancing seemed appropriate.
And they seemed very aware of his glaring.
Scowl on.
He wanted to blame his daughter’s dancing for the itchy sensation along his neck, but his instincts blared something more was going on here.
They were being watched.
Not something concrete he could call the cops and report. He searched the crowd, the perimeter, the trees, and could see nothing amiss. He could only sit and go quietly nuts.
“Rick?” Nola nudged his elbow. “Hello? Are you in there?”
He forced a smile. No need worrying her about something neither of them could change. He would just keep Nola and Lauren under close watch at all times. “Just reminiscing. Here we are, back in a bar again. I wish I could take you dancing.”
Her hand closed over his, her eyes so full of caring his neck crinked up. “I don’t need to dance. I have crummy rhythm and look pretty much like a gangly duck.”
“Bull. I’ve seen you dance before, if you recall, and you’re graceful and sexy as all get-out, lady.”
“Thank you.” She met his eyes straight on and let him see the unveiled emotion in her eyes. “I would rather sit here with you than dance, and that’s the God’s honest truth.”
He grinned, wanting things lighthearted the way they’d been that first night. Just for now. “Must be the chili-cheese fries.”
“You’ve found me out.” She reached across the table to take his hand. “We’ve already said all the wrong things. What does that leave for us to say this go-round?”
She wasn’t going to let him off that easy. But then that was one of the things he’d always liked about this woman, her grit.
“Hell if I know.” He flipped his hand to link fingers with hers. “More of that honesty I guess.”
Even under the cover of the bar porch, the mist clung to her skin, giving her a glow he wanted to taste. She shivered—from his watchful eyes or the chill, he didn’t know, but he shucked his jacket and draped it over her shoulders.