I frown but concentrate on the road ahead that’s riddled with cracks, potholes, and uneven surfaces galore. “What?”
“You said nope, not no.”
I toss him a glance that I’m sure says, Dude, you’re weird, before returning my attention to the road.
“Any other time, when you were certain about somethin’, you’d outright say yes or no.”
Don’t tense up. Don’t tense up. Don’t tense up. I repeat this silently, because the last thing I need is Sherlock Holmes here picking up on just how fucked up I am. “We’re turning right here.”
We make it another block—far longer than I expected him to be able to hold out—before he finally utters, “Please tell me that shit doesn’t happen often.”
“It doesn’t happen often.” I can at least say that without any hesitation. Mainly, because often can have a varied timeframe. My version of often is something that happens every day.
I motion for him that we’re taking the next left, and when Happy Mammy’s comes into view, I’m not sure whether to smile or grimace.
Mammy is older than dirt—her own words, not mine—and is one of those older women who was born with the motherly instinct but never had children. She always loved to cook and bake, but it wasn’t until her “beau” suggested she should open her own restaurant that she took the leap.
She’s one of the few people around here who will look me in the eyes without flinching and has never once made me feel awkward. I’d probably stop by for a meal more often if it weren’t for the two dumb shits who have a tendency to camp out there. Luckily, there’s no sign of them.
The hostess grabs two menus and leads us to a booth by the front windows. No sooner does my ass slide onto the leather seat than my eyes are drawn to the doorway separating the kitchen from the dining area.
A moment later, Mammy emerges from the kitchen. Wiping her hands on a towel, she drapes it over her shoulder and heads our way.
The older black woman beams at me like a proud mother, even though I couldn’t be more different from her.
I can make a mean pot of coffee and Ramen noodles like nobody’s business, but truly can’t cook to save my life. I’m at home with greasy car parts and a quiet salvage yard to myself, while this woman is the face of domestication.
“I know you aren’t tryin’ to get past me without givin’ me some sugar, darlin’.” Mammy’s tone is admonishing but filled with affection that wriggles deep, worming its way into my cold, black heart. She’s probably the only person who makes me wonder what it’d be like to have a mom—especially one like Mammy.
When I slide out from my seat, she extends her arms, pulling me in for a hug. Hugs still blanket me in awkwardness, like I’m a Lego person with limbs that only operate at ninety-degree angles, but Mammy never seems to mind.
I plant a quick kiss on her cheek. “Good to see you, Mammy.”
She squeezes me so tightly, I swear my lungs threaten to collapse. As she holds me by the arms, her eyes sweep over me with a smile that has those familiar creases forming on her face.
Laugh lines galore, that’s what this woman has. Mammy’s one of the only people who make me yearn to be like that. Happy. Carefree. Normal.
She backs away to settle her attention on Daniel. “Now, you better introduce me to your beau.”
“Oh, he’s not my—”
Daniel rises from his seat and holds out a hand. “I’m Daniel. It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”
Wait—what the fu…? I gape at the man who’s not only offering Mammy a polite greeting but the closest semblance to a smile I’ve yet to witness.
Mammy’s eyebrows fly to her hairline before she tosses her head back on a cackle. Her hand shoots out to accept Daniel’s handshake, except she gives his hand a swift tug. Pulling his taller form closer, she beams up at him. “I’m a hugger, Daniel.”
A flash of something—surprise intertwined with affection?—crosses his features, and those eyes soften as he enfolds her in his arms. It’s almost comical viewing it; she’s so tiny compared to him, since he stands nearly a foot and a half taller than her.
When he hugs her, though, it’s almost as if I bear witness to a different side of him. Which leads me to the unanswered question plaguing me.
Who the hell is Daniel Madrano? How can I possibly reconcile the murderer and intimidating gang member with the man who ensured I didn’t crack my skull wide open earlier? Who’s here to guarantee I eat something “more substantial”?
“I don’t mind hugs.” His muted admission has an odd sensation firing up directly beneath my rib cage.
When she releases him and steps back, her expression is one of a solid stamp of approval. She reaches up and pats him on the stubbled cheek. “You’re a good one.” Mammy gestures with her thumb toward her chest. “I’ve got a radar for this kinda thing, and I know you’ll be good for my Mac.”
I’m instantly compelled to offer to tune up whatever radar system she claims to have, because that sucker is sure as hell not functioning properly. Not if she just signed off on the second-in-command of The Scorpions.
“He’s a client, Mammy,” I rush to reiterate.
“A client, huh? Is that what you crazy kids are callin’ it these days?” She lets out a whoop of laughter, and it’s impossible to be impervious to the carefree, joyful sound.
Another waitress pops up beside Mammy with two mugs and a carafe of coffee. She slides the mugs in front of us and fills each before she quickly bustles off to others, topping off their cups.
“I’ll leave y’all be.” She settles an affectionately stern gaze on me. “You’d best bring your sweet beau back around to see me, you hear?” With a wave, she strides away and disappears into the kitchen.
I busy myself by scanning the menu even though I know it by heart.
“I’d ask what’s good here, but I get the feeling I can’t go wrong no matter what I get.”
“Pretty much.” I continue poring over the offerings, actively avoiding meeting his eyes.
“She seemed to really like me.”
My eyes snap up to peer over the top of my menu, colliding with green ones. That hint of amusement is at odds with his usual placid expression.
“Don’t let it go to your head. She also liked Robert Dean Olman, who turned out to be a loser she caught in the act of stealing her heirloom set of gold silverware to pawn it.”
The corners of his mouth twitch briefly, and it draws my thoughts to how it felt to have that mouth on mine and on my body, the way he—
“Y’all ready to order?” The waitress, BobbiJo, smiles patiently, and I nearly want to kiss her for interrupting my dangerous train of thoughts.
I hurriedly rattle off my usual when I come here. “Two eggs sunny side up, wheat toast with butter, bacon extra crispy, and pancakes with no whipped cream, please.”
She jots it down on her little pad with practiced ease before accepting my menu and turning to Daniel. “And for you, sir?”
Is it just me, or did her voice get breathless? Jesus. Must be the tattoos. Or the hairstyle only someone like him could pull off.
I sit back in the booth and study him as he places his order. “I’ll have the same but with the whipped cream.”