“Sorry about that, everyone.” Dawson grins as he takes his seat and rubs his hands together. “Glad I ran into him. He liked you, Shelby.”
“I’d love to work with him one day.”
“We’ll try to make that happen,” Dawson says, opening his menu.
Shelby freezes for a second, then picks up her menu. “That’d be nice,” she says casually.
Shelby
My hands are still sweaty from talking to Buck Ainsley. Greg had him on my pie-in-the-sky wish list of producers, but Ainsley supposedly didn’t work with new artists.
Dawson talking up my experience now that I’ve finished a tour and my “depth” in songwriting—whatever that meant—might change his mind.
Under the table, I reach for Rooster’s hand and twine my fingers around his. His patience when he has to be bored silly means the world to me.
“Still going for the mac and cheese?” Mallory asks me.
“I don’t know. I’m eyeing those chicken-fried chicken thighs.” Damn, they’ve got salsa in the mashed potatoes. Why the heck would anyone do that?
Rooster seems to be thinking the same thing. He leans over and taps the description of the dish on my menu.
“I know. I saw it.” How sweet is he to remember my tomato allergy and be looking out for it? I scan the dinner list again. “The steak, egg, and potato waffle looks good too.” There better not be any stinkin’ tomatoes with waffles.
“Ooo.” Mallory’s eyes gleam with interest. “You had me at potato waffle.”
We place our orders. Everyone orders a steak of some kind.
“Lordy, they’re gonna need to butcher a whole cow for our table,” I joke after the waitress leaves.
“Dawson Roads.” A breathy voice draws all of our attention. Dawson and I both turn around to find the source.
I scan our visitor from head to toe—twenty-something. Long, pale blond hair like a cloud of cotton candy. Bright plaid short-sleeved shirt, unbuttoned enough to show off firm cleavage and tied up under her bra to showcase her concave stomach—complete with winking belly button ornament.
“I’m such a huge fan of yours,” she gushes, curling her hand over his shoulder.
“Well, thank you, sugar,” he drawls, laying it on with a trowel.
My gaze skips across the table to Chaser whose firm expression is hard to interpret. Mallory seems more entertained—a slight flicker of amusement playing at the corners of her mouth. Rooster’s flat expression just seems bored.
It’s impossible to return to our conversation while she’s praising Dawson. The woman’s gaze keeps straying to the empty chair next to him. Please don’t invite her to join us.
Mallory leans over and whispers something in her husband’s ear. He flicks his gaze toward the ceiling and laughs, shaking his head.
Rooster leans toward them. “This happen to you back in the day?” It’s not clear if he’s directing the question to Chaser or Mallory but Mallory’s the one who answers.
She leans over the table, demurely pressing her hand to her chest to stop her blouse from gapping. “I was just saying to Chaser—well, when I first met him, it was a whole different world on the Sunset Strip. Girls used to walk up to his band and crawl under the table to blow them, not even caring who was around—”
Chaser pinches the bridge of his nose as if it’s a story he’d prefer stay buried in the past. Personally, I hope she continues.
“His bandmates. Not Chaser,” Mallory amends her story. “I would’ve whapped one of them with my stiletto.”
Chaser falls back against his chair laughing and wraps his arm around her shoulders. “I’m not so sure about that. You were pretty timid back then.”
“Not that timid,” she grumbles. “Well, maybe a little. I was shocked. I’d never seen anyone behave that way before.”
Rooster chuckles. “So, obviously you didn’t grow up around an MC.”
Chaser barks out a laugh and punches Rooster’s shoulder. “Not helping.”
“Anyway,” Mallory says, drawing out the word to recapture their attention. “I was saying,” she lowers her voice, “I hope she’s not planning to crawl under the table, because that would be awkward for all of us.”
I burst into giggles imagining the scenario. “Got that right.”
“Today, photos or video of something like that would end up online within seconds,” Rooster says.
“True.” Mallory nods. “We say that all the time—thank God social media wasn’t around back then. Things would’ve been even worse than they were.”
“Thanks for stoppin’ by, sugar,” Dawson’s voice rises above our conversation, the dismissal in his tone clear. “We’re havin’ a business dinner here and I need to get back to it.”
“Oh. Sure. Sorry.” She flaps her hand at the rest of us, turns on her heel and trots away.
“Sorry about that.” It’s hard to tell under the crappy lights but Dawson’s cheeks seem red. “That doesn’t usually happen here.”
“Incoming,” Chaser warns.
The blonde returns, dropping a card with a number on it in front of Dawson. “Call me,” she coos against his ear before prancing off again.