Chapter 8

“What? Something on my face? Lint? A bug?”

“Wha—no. Why?”

“You were staring.” Kord moved his napkin and silverware to the side for no good reason. “Oh, I get it.”

“Get what? What’re you talking about?”

“Don’t worry about it. Happens all the time.”

“Worry about what? What happens?”

The waitress returned with their coffee and a piece of pie so large it could be used for a pillow.

“Here ya go, fellas. Anything else I can get’cha?”

Kord, fork poised over the mountain of lemon meringue, shook his head. His golden blond curls shivered with the movement.

Doyle said nothing, still wondering what Kord meant. He guessed that Kord understood Doyle was interested in him, had been staring at him. If that was the case, he certainly took it well.

And he hadn’t yet moved his knee. It still pressed firmly against Doyle’s. Solid and steady. If Kord was like that, this could turn out to be a good partnership.