oddly comforting.
“You want something?” Molly appeared suddenly at their table, her eyes fixed on a point on the wall three feet above their heads. She wore a blank Hello, My Name is… sticker and held a pen poised over an order pad, even though Biz had never once seen her write a single order down.
Biz and Gillian quickly ordered, before Molly’s whim for playing waitress evaporated. She slunk off toward the kitchen door with her still-blank order pad, and Gillian leaned across the scarred Formica.
“I’ve got the scoop on Mark Ellison.”
A stab of trepidation pierced Biz’s gut. Did she want to know anything more about him? Would it be better to just lock herself in her house for three weeks and cut off all contact with eligible men? If she knew too much about him, would that somehow trigger the curse? But maybe he didn’t want anything from her but her story… Maybe he’d be easy to send away if she just knew what lies to feed him…
Biz swallowed her doubts. She could argue in circles until doomsday. That certainly wasn’t going to break the curse. She needed to know more about Mark.
Because of the curse. Only the curse. It had nothing to do with the little shivery awareness she’d felt in his presence. Absolutely nothing to do with dimples or moonlit almost-kisses.
“Tell me.”
“He’s a reporter for the Raleigh Gazette —”
“I knew that already.”
Gillian rolled her eyes. “You knew he told you he was a reporter. He could have been a lying scumbag serial killer. Though, in this case, he wasn’t. We checked up on him and he’s legit. He does mainly human-interest stories. Puff pieces about reuniting long-lost siblings and good Samaritans doing stuff for others. That kind of touchy-feely crap.”
“So he really is just here for a piece about Valentine’s and depression? He doesn’t—” Biz stopped herself before she finished her sentence with suspect anything.
“What else would he want? And even if he is just here for the depression thing, he’s a slime bag. How dare he use you—”
“Gillian. What else did you find?”
Gillian made a face at being derailed from her rant but obediently went back to her report. “He used to do hard-hitting news stuff before he moved over to the lighter side. Politics, mostly, and some investigative stuff. He may be doing softball news, but don’t mistake him for a creampuff.”
Biz visualized Mark Ellison. Tall, chiseled and immoveable. No, she wasn’t likely to mistake him for a pushover.
“We tried to get more details out of him, but he’s good, Biz. Slippery. He charmed Mrs. Whittaker in under five minutes. She keeps calling him that sweet boy . She’d probably adopt him if he weren’t over thirty.”
“He’s over thirty?” Biz perked up, then kicked herself for paying more attention to his vital stats than the danger he represented.
“Thirty-two. Never married. Has a sister in Fayetteville with two kids, but he doesn’t get down there as often as he’d like. His parents retired to Arizona a few years back, and he flies out to spend every Christmas and Thanksgiving with them.” Gillian rolled her eyes. “Mrs. Whittaker didn’t seem to understand we weren’t trying to vet him as a possible husband for you.”
Biz seemed to be having a hard time remembering that fact herself. Much too hard a time. The curse was really doing a number on her this time.
“Has he been asking any weird questions?”
Before Gillian could answer, Molly appeared with both arms full of Heart Attack on a Plate. Gillian and Biz fell silent for several minutes to give Blanche’s cooking the proper respect. With her mouth full of powdered-sugary, cream-cheesy goodness, suddenly the curse looked a lot less terrifying.
Until the door to Blanchard’s opened and Mark Ellison walked through, dimples flashing.
Blanche’s Double-Stuft French Toast turned to sawdust in her mouth.
Chapter Eight—Modesty and Other Mythology
Had he gotten more
“You want something?” Molly appeared suddenly at their table, her eyes fixed on a point on the wall three feet above their heads. She wore a blank Hello, My Name is… sticker and held a pen poised over an order pad, even though Biz had never once seen her write a single order down.
Biz and Gillian quickly ordered, before Molly’s whim for playing waitress evaporated. She slunk off toward the kitchen door with her still-blank order pad, and Gillian leaned across the scarred Formica.
“I’ve got the scoop on Mark Ellison.”
A stab of trepidation pierced Biz’s gut. Did she want to know anything more about him? Would it be better to just lock herself in her house for three weeks and cut off all contact with eligible men? If she knew too much about him, would that somehow trigger the curse? But maybe he didn’t want anything from her but her story… Maybe he’d be easy to send away if she just knew what lies to feed him…
Biz swallowed her doubts. She could argue in circles until doomsday. That certainly wasn’t going to break the curse. She needed to know more about Mark.
Because of the curse. Only the curse. It had nothing to do with the little shivery awareness she’d felt in his presence. Absolutely nothing to do with dimples or moonlit almost-kisses.
“Tell me.”
“He’s a reporter for the Raleigh Gazette —”
“I knew that already.”
Gillian rolled her eyes. “You knew he told you he was a reporter. He could have been a lying scumbag serial killer. Though, in this case, he wasn’t. We checked up on him and he’s legit. He does mainly human-interest stories. Puff pieces about reuniting long-lost siblings and good Samaritans doing stuff for others. That kind of touchy-feely crap.”
“So he really is just here for a piece about Valentine’s and depression? He doesn’t—” Biz stopped herself before she finished her sentence with suspect anything.
“What else would he want? And even if he is just here for the depression thing, he’s a slime bag. How dare he use you—”
“Gillian. What else did you find?”
Gillian made a face at being derailed from her rant but obediently went back to her report. “He used to do hard-hitting news stuff before he moved over to the lighter side. Politics, mostly, and some investigative stuff. He may be doing softball news, but don’t mistake him for a creampuff.”
Biz visualized Mark Ellison. Tall, chiseled and immoveable. No, she wasn’t likely to mistake him for a pushover.
“We tried to get more details out of him, but he’s good, Biz. Slippery. He charmed Mrs. Whittaker in under five minutes. She keeps calling him that sweet boy . She’d probably adopt him if he weren’t over thirty.”
“He’s over thirty?” Biz perked up, then kicked herself for paying more attention to his vital stats than the danger he represented.
“Thirty-two. Never married. Has a sister in Fayetteville with two kids, but he doesn’t get down there as often as he’d like. His parents retired to Arizona a few years back, and he flies out to spend every Christmas and Thanksgiving with them.” Gillian rolled her eyes. “Mrs. Whittaker didn’t seem to understand we weren’t trying to vet him as a possible husband for you.”
Biz seemed to be having a hard time remembering that fact herself. Much too hard a time. The curse was really doing a number on her this time.
“Has he been asking any weird questions?”
Before Gillian could answer, Molly appeared with both arms full of Heart Attack on a Plate. Gillian and Biz fell silent for several minutes to give Blanche’s cooking the proper respect. With her mouth full of powdered-sugary, cream-cheesy goodness, suddenly the curse looked a lot less terrifying.
Until the door to Blanchard’s opened and Mark Ellison walked through, dimples flashing.
Blanche’s Double-Stuft French Toast turned to sawdust in her mouth.
Chapter Eight—Modesty and Other Mythology
Had he gotten more
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