Denise Gore Long
Nathaniel Mercer had been recognized in airports, grocery stores, and once in the middle of a root canal.
He had never minded much. But tonight? He minded.
He sat in Bellweather’s dining room and checked his phone.
Kelly: Parking now. See you soon.
For seven weeks, Kelly Dawson had existed inside a little blue bubble on his screen. A wrong number at 12:47 a.m. had turned into nightly conversations, bad jokes, and eventually, shameless flirting. It brought the kind of honesty that was easier when the other person didn’t know your last name.
She knew he worked in a restaurant.
Technically true.
She knew he kept ridiculous hours, hated fennel, and had once locked himself in a walk-in cooler because everyone was clamoring for his attention.
What she didn’t know? That the restaurant was one of five bearing his name.
Or that his mother kept copies of his cookbooks in a glass-front trophy case. Or that several million television viewers had watched him lose his temper over someone putting fennel in the risotto.
He’d wanted to tell her. He’d meant to.
Then she’d texted one night:
Kelly: I like knowing you only as Nate. It’s weirdly uncomplicated.
He couldn’t bring himself to reveal exactly how complicated his life really was.
The front door opened, and she stopped just inside the restaurant, scanned the room, spotted the man in the pink shirt holding his phone like an idiot, and smiled.
That smile hit him square in the chest.
She crossed toward his small table in the back. “Pink shirt,” she said.
“Red purse.”
“Good to know neither of us is colorblind.”
He laughed and stood.
He hadn’t given great thought to what Kelly would look like. Probably for the best. His imagination would have been sorely lacking. Dark hair brushed her shoulders. A black dress that looked simple until she moved. No dramatic entrance. Nothing practiced. Just Kelly.
“You’re taller than I expected,” she said.
He blinked. “Disappointed?”
Pink crept along her cheeks. “No.”
Nate preened like the peacocks strolling around one of his restaurants. He pulled out her chair with an unreasonable sense of masculine accomplishment.
She picked up the water glass that had been waiting for her and took a sip as he returned to his side of the table. “So, Nate, what would I have found out if I had ignored our agreement and Googled you?”
He about choked on his own water.
Before he could figure out the least incriminating answer, a man wearing a suit appeared carrying a plate large enough to feed a small wedding.
“Chef Mercer.”
Nate closed his eyes. Apparently, it hadn’t mattered that he’d deliberately chosen a restaurant where he had no personal connections.
Bellweather’s manager was positively giddy. “I saw you were dining with us. Chef insisted we send out a little something to start.”
He set the plate down with a flourish. “Complimentary, of course.”
Oblivious to the fact that he had just detonated Nate’s evening, the man kept going.
“We’re all enormous fans. Our staff would love a picture with you.”
Nate considered crawling under the table. “Please thank Chef for me, but I’m enjoying a private dinner with my guest. Regretfully, I’m not available for pictures.”
Something in Nate’s face must have gotten through. The man cleared his throat. “Of course, Chef. Enjoy the scallops.” He disappeared with impressive speed.
Kelly’s gaze followed the manager before turning to him. She wasn’t smiling anymore. “You’re the Nathaniel Mercer? With cookbooks and television shows?”
He winced. “Guilty.”
“My mother owns one of your cookbooks.” She stared at him. “I apparently never read the author bio.”
Across the room, a woman had begun whispering furiously to her husband. Kelly noticed. Her lips pressed tight. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t know how.”
She closed her eyes. “Do you have any idea how foolish I feel?”
His stomach sank.
“I told you my secret pancake ingredient was vanilla pudding mix. From a box!”
“I tried it.” He shrugged. “It was delicious.”
“Nate, I work in a cubicle by day and sling hash by night. It’s taking years to save for a two-bedroom house. This”—she gestured around the room—“isn’t me.”
That was exactly what he liked about her.
Nate rubbed a thumb along the edge of his cloth napkin. “Most people meet Nathaniel Mercer first. You didn’t. You got to know the guy whose dishwasher broke at eleven-thirty. The guy who hates fennel.”
Across the room, another woman lifted her phone and made a poor show of not aiming it at them. Kelly regarded him for a long moment, then picked up her purse and pushed back her chair.
So, that was it. Seven weeks of being just Nate down the drain.
He reached for his water, mostly to give his hands something to do.
Once standing, she tilted her head. “You hungry? Because I’m starving.”
His hand stilled around the glass. “I thought we were having dinner.”
“I’m not the type of person to be photographed while eating a scallop. I’d rather go somewhere nobody cares who you are.”
Twenty minutes later, Nathaniel Mercer sat in a cracked vinyl booth at the Forks Up Diner with a cheeseburger in front of him while Kelly drained the last of a Diet Coke across from him.
Kelly’s coworker, Rita, topped off his iced tea and brought her a refill.
She nodded his way. “This the texting guy?”
Kelly sighed. “Yes.”
“Thought he’d be taller.”
Kelly’s eyes widened and her lips tightened. Then she laughed. Hard.
For the first time all evening, Nate could breathe.
Kelly stole one of his fries. “I’m still not sure if I can do Nathaniel Mercer.”
He nodded. Fair.
She stole another fry. “But I haven’t completely ruled out Nate.”
His heart gave an embarrassing kick. “Really?”
“Don’t get excited. You’re still on probation.”
“How long?”
She considered that, then reached for another fry. “At least through dessert.”
Nate smiled.
He could work with that.
She lives in North Carolina with her husband, their two adult children, and dogs. Lots of dogs. Her Christian worldview is central to the way she lives her life, and she remains firmly convinced that Diet Coke is essential to the writing process.
She is the author of the Beacon Bluff series.
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