Joe pushes through the swinging doors and I hear him say, “Hey,” in a low, conspiratorial whisper that perks my interest. Taking a bite of my sandwich, I stare at the counter top and frown, trying to listen. They’re on the other side of the pick-up counter, out of view, but it’s a quiet place and I can just barely hear what they say. “He asked about you.”
“He did?” I feel my cheeks flush at Deon’s words. God, what’s he thinking now? That I’m some kind of perv, I can just imagine it, thinking horrible lustful thoughts at the mere memory of those eyes and those arms and that smile, when he has a girlfriend, he has Bree, for Christ’s sake. “What’d he say?”
“He just wanted to know where you were,” Joe says, and I can picture him in my mind’s eye, that nonchalant shrug, that easy grin. “I tol
