Free Me Page 2

  “I’m all good.”

  “I’ll let you get to sleep.”

  * * *

  Mrs. Quinn quietly shut the door on her way out. I checked on Ella once more before crawling into bed. As soon as I closed my eyes, I wasn’t in the dark basement like I usually was. This time, I saw Andrew Dixon’s kind eyes. I burrowed into the covers, feeling safe for reasons I couldn’t understand. Instead of fighting sleep, I welcomed it. For the first night in years, I didn’t wake up once from the nightmares real or imagined.

  Chapter Three

  Trish

  “I’ll have the short ribs and a lemonade.”

  I jerked my head up from where it was buried in the cash register while I finished up the last transaction. “Officer Wilson?”

  He gave me a sheepish smile, glancing at the line behind him. “You’re busy, but I came by to apologize for yesterday.”

  My jaw dropped. This didn’t even look like the same man. The tension on his face was gone. His brown eyes had a lightness about them instead of the hard glint that had intimidated me the day before. The only similarity was the crisp uniform, his brass still perfectly polished.

  “Give me just a moment please.”

  I was reeling, stunned by his appearance. Robotically, I prepared his food, grateful for a moment to collect myself. He’d been so ready to give me a ticket yesterday, and now . . . I didn’t know what to do with his apology. Officer Wilson had caught me off guard. No man had ever apologized to me, no matter how wrong they were.

  As I handed him his food, his expression was uncertain.

  “I appreciate your apology,” I said, and his shoulders slumped. “This is on the house.”

  His thick brows dipped into a deep V. “No. I can’t.”

  “Your money’s no good here.” I pushed the lemonade toward him, offering a straw.

  Still he pulled out his wallet, and I crossed my arms over my chest. “Please. I was out of line. I can’t let you pay for my meal.”

  “You can. It’s easy. See.” I leaned over the counter and pressed the lemonade into his hand. His fingers curled around the cup.

  “You don’t have to—”

  “I’m not changing my mind.”

  Reluctantly, he shoved his wallet back into his pocket and picked up the carton of food. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He strolled to a nearby bench and parked it to eat his lunch. As I served the next few customers, I glanced in his direction. Officer Wilson dwarfed the bench, his body a solid sheet of muscle. He took his time, savoring the bites that I caught him take. That was why I did this. For the pleasure that eating something delicious could bring.

  * * *

  When there was a lull in business, he sauntered back over to the window. I held out my hand for his cup and refilled it with lemonade.

  “I’ll take a piece of coconut cake for the road too.”

  I boxed it up, again refusing when he tried to hand me money. He stuffed it in the tip jar. His warning look stopped me from taking it out.

  “I had a rough day yesterday, and I took it out on you. I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”

  “I’ve already accepted your apology. No need to bring it up again.” I took a swig of water from my bottle. “I hope today has been better.”

  “Much.” He picked up the box with his slice of cake. “Make plenty of those short ribs tomorrow. When I tell the guys at the station how great they were, they’ll be down here in droves.”

  I cracked a smile. “They trust your taste?”

  “I’ve never steered them wrong.”

  “I’ll hold you to that.”

  He placed his lemonade down and reached into the front pocket of his shirt. “Here’s my card. If anyone gives you any trouble or if you need anything, call me, Miss Norris.”

  “Thank you, Officer Wilson,” I said, accepting the card and stuffing it in my back pocket.

  “Timothy. Please. Call me Timothy.”

  “Timothy. Okay. Call me Trish.”

  He grinned, totally disarming me. “See you later, Trish. Thanks again for lunch.”

  Dazed, I watched him head down the street. Whiplash. That’s what Officer Wilson—Timothy—gave me. I definitely liked this version better. He didn’t scare me. Didn’t seem like the same person hell-bent on giving me a citation yesterday.

  He’d said to be prepared tomorrow for a crowd, but it wasn’t a half hour before a group of men in uniform were at my window. They kept me busy well into the afternoon. I needed another hand, but I hadn’t found anyone to replace Sonya yet. She always helped me in a pinch, though I hated asking because she had her own sporting goods store to run. Sometimes, it felt like Delores was partly Sonya’s baby too. She’d named my truck Delores after a week of indecision on my part.

  But with all the promises to return tomorrow, I’d need her help if I didn’t want to get overwhelmed. I couldn’t afford big mistakes. The officers had been patient and friendly enough, but I didn’t want to disappoint customers unnecessarily.

  When I had a minute, I fired off a text to Sonya.

  SOS. Need your help tomorrow.

  I want chocolate cake. A whole one.

  I laughed, despite knowing she wasn’t kidding.

  Done.

  She responded in seconds.

  See you at ten. :)

  Text me if you decide you want strawberry instead.

  Bring one of those too.

  I’d just slipped my phone back in my pocket when Mr. Hardaway puttered up to the window. I checked my watch. “You’re late.”

  “Had a damn doctor’s appointment.”

  “How’d it go?” I cut him a slice of champagne chiffon cake.

  “I’m going to live a really long time.”

  He made it hard to hide my amusement.

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  “When you’re my age, you’ve already lived a really long time.”

  I scooped ice into a cup and filled it with lemonade. “I’m glad you’ll be around a little longer.”

  He snorted. “Only because I buy so much of your cake.”

  “Not true,” I argued.

  He stabbed a plastic fork into his cake. “You should cut all this other stuff you sell. Stick to the cake.”

  I’d considered that, and maybe one day I’d have a bakery too, but I enjoyed making all kinds of food, not just desserts. “Have you ever tried anything else?”

  He cut his eyes up at me. “No need. This is what I come for.” Mr. Hardaway stuffed a bite into his mouth as if he couldn’t wait another second.

  “As long as you’re happy.”

  “Happiness is overrated,” he mumbled into his cake.

  “Let me pack you something to take home for supper.” I didn’t wait for a reply, scooping up a couple of mini chicken pot pies into a paper box. This was the first day I’d served them, and they’d been a hit.

  “Just give me another slice of cake and keep the rest,” he grumbled, holding out his payment.

  I snickered. I wondered if this man had always been so grumpy yet so adorable.

  “Would you like another piece of champagne chiffon or something else?”

  “Same,” he answered gruffly. “To go.” He tossed his trash in the bin and snatched the bag of food and his lemonade off the counter. “You’re taking all my money.” Mr. Hardaway shoved a twenty-dollar bill at me and stalked away. I laughed, and at the same time, heard a deeper snort of laughter.

  My breath caught when I saw who was standing a respectable distance from my window. Andrew Dixon. The man who had been lingering in my thoughts since yesterday. His lips curved upward in amusement. His eyes were as kind as I remembered.

  “See you tomorrow,” I called to Mr. Hardaway, as I did every time he left.

  “That’s not a tip,” he said. “That’s for my coconut cake.”

  “I don’t have any coconut.” I couldn’t help myself. The man was too much fun to t
ease.

  “You’re supposed to do what the customers want. I expect one next time.”

  Andrew and I watched as he disappeared down the street before I could respond.

  “That what all your regulars are like?” he asked, propping his arm against the counter.

  “Nah. Mr. Hardaway is a special kind of grumpy.”

  He laughed, and it reverberated through me. I soaked in every note, and hoped it wouldn’t be long before I heard it again. There was pure joy in that laughter, and I surprised myself by recognizing it so easily. Joy wasn’t an emotion I was on speaking terms with all that often. Ella was my link to it. Was it possible after only meeting this man twice that I’d found another one?

  “Just thought I’d stop by to make sure you didn’t get a citation today.”

  I glanced at my watch. Almost five thirty. The day had flown by.

  “Glad you did. It’s about time to shut things down.” I pushed off the counter. “Are you a picky eater?”

  He tilted his head to the side. “I hate pickles. And I’m not crazy about ketchup. Other than that, I’m game.”

  “Stay put.”

  I placed a chicken breast stuffed with feta and spinach in a cardboard container, followed by scalloped potatoes with thyme and gruyere cheese.

  “Can I look now, or am I supposed to be surprised when I get home?” His finger edged under the flap of the container, but he didn’t open it.

  “Wait to be surprised. Or if you’re a fast eater, go for it now.”

  He tapped the top of the box. “I think I’m going to want to take my time.”

  There was no salaciousness in his gaze, yet I wanted his words to mean something more. I wrapped my arms around my middle, uncertain what to do with what felt like desire. I never expected to feel that again.

  “Officer Wilson stopped by earlier,” I volunteered, hoping to distract myself from things I wasn’t ready to feel.

  Lines creased his forehead. “Really?”

  I nodded. “He apologized. Said he had a bad day yesterday and took it out on me.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “He sent a lot of his friends by this afternoon too.” The officers had been kind and complimentary. They’d filled my tip jar so full I’d finally had to empty it.

  Andrew appeared genuinely pleased for me. “Something not so great may turn out to be all right.”

  I inclined my head to the side. Could we possibly have similar philosophies? “That seems to be a running theme in my life.”

  “You’re a bright-sider?”

  “A what?”

  “You see the bright side of things,” he clarified.

  I considered a moment. Yeah, I guess I was. “What about you? Are you a bright-sider?”

  “Depends on the day of the week.” His smile turned enigmatic.

  “And today?” I prompted. I was normally so distrustful, but I was curious to know more about Andrew Dixon.

  “Eternal optimist.” He glanced down at his wrist and tapped his watch. “Officer Wilson may come calling soon.”

  I shivered. “I’d better get a move on then.”

  He set his container of food on the counter and pulled his billfold out of the inside breast pocket of his suit jacket. I held up both my hands, but he pulled cash from his wallet anyway.

  “I insist.” Instead of giving me the money, he stuck it in the tip jar. “I have a feeling if I tried to put this in your hands, you wouldn’t take it.”

  “You feel right.” My cheeks flamed at the realization of what I said.

  “I do.” His gaze met mine, easing the awkwardness of my flub. Now the flames were in my stomach, which tightened into a knot. The good anticipation kind of knot, not the bad.

  I looked away quickly, unprepared for my reaction to him. “I’d better pack up,” I said quietly.

  “Right.” Andrew rapped his knuckles on the counter twice. “My dinner’s getting cold.”

  “Thanks for stopping by. I’m strictly by the book.” I saluted.

  He laughed, and I forgot about feeling awkward only a moment before. “See you around, Bright Side.”

  I blushed, watching as he moved away, unable to take my eyes off him. Abruptly, he stopped and turned around. I averted my gaze, pretending to wipe at some nonexistent crumbs on the counter.

  “Trish.”

  I lifted my eyes to find warmth mixed with a healthy dose of nerves. Andrew opened his mouth to speak and then snapped it shut. I waited while he debated what he wanted to say.

  Finally, he lifted the box of food. “Thanks for this.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He gave a sharp nod and turned on his heel. As he walked away, I couldn’t decide if I was disappointed or relieved.

  Chapter Four

  Andrew

  Some of the best food I’d ever eaten, and it came from a food truck.

  It had been fourteen hours since I ate Trish’s meal, but I was still thinking about it. One of the guys in the office space next to mine had told me about her food truck, but I wasn’t expecting much when I went down last night.

  I was a full believer in all the hype now . . . or maybe it was the woman behind the window.

  She called to me in a way I didn’t fully understand. Skittish yet she had a resounding strength. I’d gathered that in about ten whole minutes of being around her. Trish had left a mark on me, but what exactly that meant I wasn’t entirely sure. I only knew I’d be at her food truck again this evening near closing time because I couldn’t stay away.

  “Mr. Dixon? There’s a call from Patrick Whitley on line one.” Diane’s voice came through the phone speaker. She’d been my secretary for eleven years, knew how to screen my calls and visitors like a champ, and God love her, she brought me homemade trail mix every Monday morning. To keep my energy up, she claimed.

  I turned down “Pretty Pimpin” which played from the music app on my tablet and pressed the speaker button on the phone. “Put him through.”

  Dropping my feet from my desk, I set the file on my lap aside and picked up the phone when it rang.

  “Whitley. To what do I owe the pleasure?” I leaned back in my leather chair and swiveled to face the windows.

  “I need a huge favor from the most brilliant legal mind of our time.”

  I laughed. “You must be really desperate, laying it on thick like that.”

  Patrick and I met at Columbia Law School what felt like a lifetime ago. He specialized in criminal defense while I’d gone the path of real estate and property law, but we’d remained friends and often consulted with one another.

  “Flattery is getting me nowhere I see,” he muttered.

  “Dinner might.”

  “Are you asking me on a date?”

  “In your dreams. Now what’s this problem that requires my big brain?”

  He hesitated. “Have you ever taken a case you shouldn’t?”

  I sat up straight in my seat. Patrick was a good guy, but in the courtroom, he was a shark. I’d often marveled at his ability to keep a definitive wall between his work and personal feelings.

  “Actually, yes.”

  “You know what? Meet me at six. We’ll talk in person at Cipriani.”

  “Sure— Wait. Can we make it seven?” I didn’t want to miss seeing Trish.

  “I’m meeting Monica for drinks at eight, so no can do.”

  “Who’s Monica?”

  “A woman I’ve taken on four dates.” He sounded miserable about that.

  “She hasn’t let you touch her yet,” I concluded with a grin.

  “No.” Then his voice muffled. “I gotta run. Six?”

  “Fine. Six.”

  No sooner than I hung up did Diane came through with another call. Back to business as usual.

  * * *

  The best laid plans. I’d decided to go by the food truck early, which had very little to do with making sure Trish didn’t get a citation and everything to do with the fact I wanted to see her again. That didn
’t happen.

  Diane’s husband fell ill, so she left around lunchtime. The phone constantly rang, and every time I didn’t answer, I watched the message count on the digital display go up. Somehow, I managed to break the coffee maker and the copy machine. By the middle of the afternoon, I began to wonder if Diane really needed me here. This thing was falling apart without her.

  I scratched my head as I took the stairs to the ground level of my office building. Diane had to have taken a vacation at some point over the time we’d worked together. I wracked my brain and couldn’t recall even an afternoon off in eleven years. I was a terrible boss.

  I sent off a short text to see how her husband was feeling. It only took her three seconds to reply that he was much better and she’d be back to work first thing in the morning. My fingers hovered over the touchscreen. I should tell her to take the day off. But I needed her. So I texted back I was glad to hear it and dimmed the screen.

  * * *

  Patrick was already at the restaurant when I arrived a few minutes late.

  “You look like you’ve been in a tornado,” he said as I sank down in the seat across from him.

  I glanced down. My tie was loosened at the neck and askew. My shirt looked like I’d picked it up this morning out of the bottom of the dirty laundry hamper. I didn’t bother examining the rest of my suit.

  “How did I graduate law school?” I asked, slumping in the seat.

  “I’ve wondered that for years,” he quipped, and I cut my eyes over to him. The waiter arrived and Patrick pointed as his glass of whiskey. “Make his a double.”

  As the waiter walked away, I pinched the bridge of my nose to ward off an oncoming headache.

  “What’s going on with you?” Patrick asked. “Where’s Mr. Easygoing and what have you done with him?”

  “Damned if I know.” I unrolled my napkin, lining up the silverware on the table and smoothing the linen napkin across my lap. “We’re supposed to be here for you.”