Logan kept telling himself he was going to go soon.
After the next beer.
After the game was over.
The next time she walked past his table.
He just wanted to smell that subtle, sweet smell one more time. Just one more time.
And now it was ten minutes past close. The restaurant was empty except for him, the tables had been cleared, and she was sweeping the floor. The cook, a middle-aged Hispanic man who had the annoying habit of leering at her chest and calling her mi muņeca had finally left.
In brief snatches of conversation, Logan had managed to find out that her boss was supposed to show up and pay her tonight, and she was sticking around since he seemed to be running late.
She finished sweeping the whole restaurant and finally sat down.
Logan glanced over at the register. “Why don’t you just take your pay out of the cash tray, darlin’? Leave him a note or somethin’?”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, I couldn’t do that. He’d kill me.”
He could tell she’d meant for it to come off as a joke, but there was a genuine fear in the words that he didn’t like one bit. “Well, how long are you gonna stick around waiting for this dickhead?”
She fidgeted in her seat. “Um, I’m not sure. I—I just really hope he shows up.”
Logan slowly raked a hand through his already wild hair. Damned if he wouldn’t feel guilty as hell leaving her by herself at night, much less alone with a man who would kill her for taking the pay she had earned. He glanced out into the pitch-dark, snowy night, then back at her. “Don’t feel right leavin’ you alone. I’ll wait with you.”
She seemed equal parts afraid, embarrassed, and grateful. “Ya don’t hafta do th—“
“I want to.”
Gratefulness came to the forefront. “I—I dunno what to say.” She smiled, and even that expression looked a little sad on her. “Thank you, sir. I mean, I mean, thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
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Author's Chapter Notes:
mi muņeca - my doll