“That goes in the coffee?”
“If you like it that way.” He acted like he’d never had coffee before.
There were seven little half-and-half containers in the bowl; he used all of them and added four packets of sugar and two artificial sweeteners. He reached for another packet.
“Whoa! Whoa! Are you sure you want all that?” She cringed out of habit. Questioning anything Dayton did would have been a sure way to get into trouble, but it didn’t faze the stranger.
“Is this too much?”
“A little,” she said.
He’d put so much creamer in his coffee, the cup was filled to the brim. Carefully, he lifted the mug to his lips and took a big mouthful. His eyes bulged, and he spit it back into the cup, again.
“What do you usually drink?” she asked.
“Water.”
“Millie can bring you water,” she suggested. It’s not my fault. I didn’t tell him to order what I ordered. She beat back the old habit of accepting responsibility for someone else’s decisions. It’s over. It’s over.
“If we’re going to converse, perhaps we should introduce ourselves.” He smiled, and once again familiarity flashed. But if he was asking her name, then they hadn’t met. Unless…he kind of remembered her from somewhere but couldn’t place her, either.
“Kevanne Girardi,” she said. “K-E-V-A-N-N-E. It’s pronounced Kevin, like the man’s name.” She liked her unusual name, but it had caused confusion her whole life—complicated by the fact she had a husky voice for a woman. When she introduced herself on the phone, people always assumed they were speaking to a man. She was used to the mix-up—so that was why she’d laughed when Dayton had been mistaken for a woman.
“My name is Chameleon,” the stranger said.
“Cam Leon—nice to meet you.” Since he had that unusual accent, she repeated back the name to ensure she heard it correctly and to better remember it.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” His eyes crinkled like he really meant it.
Her stomach fluttered. If she shifted a tad, her arm would brush his. Unexpected hyperawareness of his nearness hummed through her. She couldn’t recall the last time a man had stirred her curiosity—certainly well before her marriage. She’d thought those feelings had died with Dayton. Odd that she would find this stranger intriguing. She didn’t normally go for the befuddled clueless type. She glanced at him. Okay, the incredibly handsome, buff, befuddled, clueless type. She wasn’t ready to date, but she could window-shop, couldn’t she?
She sipped her coffee. Where could he be from to never have tried coffee? Maybe he was Mormon or practiced another religion forbidding caffeine?
I hope I didn’t get him to violate his religious practices. No, if he was Mormon, he would still know about coffee and wouldn’t have ordered it. Cam Leon had acted like he’d never heard of coffee.
“Have we met before?” she asked.
He hesitated. “No.”
“You look familiar to me. What brings you to Argent?” she asked, still trying to place him.
“Mechanical difficulties.”
“Your car broke down?”
“That’s as close as I can describe it.”
“Two orders, burgers and fries!” With flourish, Millie set their plates in front of them. “Can I get you anything else?”
The ketchup was already on the counter. “This is fine, Millie,” Kevanne said. She waited for Cam to say something, but he didn’t. “Would you like a glass of water?” she asked.
“Oh, yes, I would,” he said.
Millie grabbed a glass, stuck it under a dispenser, filled it with ice and then water, and set it on the counter. She bustled away to take another order.
“There aren’t any mechanics in Argent, but there are quite a few in Coeur d’Alene and even more in Spokane,” she said as she shook ketchup over her fries.
“Mechanic?” He picked up a French fry and sniffed it before taking a bite.
“For your car.”
“Uh, thank you, but we’re taking care of it.”
“We? You’re with somebody?” Was he married? Girlfriend? Why was he here eating alone? Instead of disappointment, she should feel relieved.
“A group of…friends. Men from…from where I’m from.”
“Where are you from?” She nudged a bottle toward him. “Ketchup?” She ate a potato then picked up her hamburger and peered at the American cheese melting down the sides. Perfect.
“I doubt you’d know it.” He dripped a dollop of ketchup onto his plate, stuck a fry into it, and hesitantly ate it. Then he shook out more onto his fries.
“Try me,” she said.
“Utopia.”
“Utopia?” Was this a joke?
“Not Utopia—’Topia.”
“Okay, you win. I haven’t heard of it.” She took a bite of her hamburger. Thick and juicy. Nobody could grill a burger like Millie’s.
He watched her for a second then picked up his burger and tilted it sideways the way she had. She frowned. Was he mimicking her behavior?
“Mmm,” he said, after tasting it. “This is good. I’ve never had anything like it.”
“Millie’s does the best hamburgers.” She cocked her head. “Is this the best burger you’ve ever had or the only burger you’ve ever had?”
“The only burger I’ve ever had.”
How could he never have had a hamburger? Even if he wasn’t from the United States—and given his accent she was pretty sure he wasn’t—there were hamburger places all over the world. Everybody ate hamburgers…unless they were vegetarian. She had a moment of horrifying guilt for possibly luring a vegetarian into eating meat then shook it off. Again, like Mormons, a vegetarian would know to avoid something he couldn’t eat. And his decisions aren’t my responsibility. He is responsible for his actions. She channeled her therapist.
Cam set his burger on his plate then swirled a fry in ketchup, drawing her attention to his hands. Given his suntanned, working man’s complexion, she would have guessed his hands would have shown some wear and tear. But while he had large, masculine hands with long fingers, he had smooth skin, no calluses, no smashed fingernails, just a few dabs of paint.
A bright-blue quarter-size patch splattered across the back of his left hand. There were two more dime-size turquoise splotches on two fingers of the right. She recalled him holding the menu when she’d sat down but didn’t remember the color. Of course, it had to have been there.
“Have you been painting?” she asked.
“Painting?” A fry disappeared into his mouth.
“You have paint on your hands.”
He stopped chewing. His gaze dropped. For several seconds he went still. Then he swallowed. “Yes, paint. I uh, had a project.”
“I have a few of those myself,” she said. If the weather held out, she might get the roof done this afternoon—which meant she shouldn’t be dillydallying.
He must have gotten the same or similar idea because he wolfed down his burger and fries like he punched a clock and lunch break was over.
Millie materialized. “Can I get you anything else? Dessert? The apple pie is homemade.” She winked. She baked the pies herself. They were legendary.