Only after nobody moves for a bit do I step forward, Blake following me to a booth in the back. It’s the one Bubba asked me to sit at when Holly first started dragging me here. It keeps me out of the line of sight from newcomers, though I’m always the first topic of conversation when someone comes in so I’m not sure it works.

We sit, and I prepare for the questions I know are coming. Or maybe, if he’s as smart as he seems, for him to make a run for the door too.

Before we can say anything, one more customer heads out the door. I try to keep track so I can make up the tips Bubba loses when I come in. It seems like the least I can do. But no questions come . . . at least not from Blake, though my brain is firing them off at rapid speed.

Why is he doing this?

How is he sitting there cool as a cucumber and not sprinting toward the door? Does he have zero sense of self-preservation?

Why did I agree to this without Holly to run interference the way she usually does?

Bubba sets two beers on the table and mutters under his breath, “Don’t stay too long, ’kay? Thanks, Zoey.”

Before I can answer, he scurries back behind the bar, holding flat palms up in the air to tell everyone to hold steady, he’s getting rid of me. For his part, Blake still hasn’t said a single word, but he’s scanning the room as though he’s learning everyone’s deepest, darkest secrets just by laying eyes on them.

In a lot of ways, he’s scarier than I am. I’m all reputation, but he’s the one who really is looking at the small gathering with a dead-eye stare like he’s Jason Bourne ready for action. The very idea makes me smile, but I cover it over with a hand so people don’t think I’m even weirder than I am.

Smiling for no reason? Oh, she must be plotting someone’s unfortunate demise. Because there’s no other, possibly normal, reason I would be happy. Uh, Blake learning everyone’s secrets might not be a normal reason, Zoey.

Well, fine. I’ll admit that’s probably true.

Once Blake gives everyone the evil eye, his gaze settles on me and softens.

I steel my guts because here come those questions. But instead, he surprises me with an innocent, almost normal question. “What’s good to eat here?” he asks, as if our entrance was perfectly ordinary and not cause for an explanation. “I’m a burger guy myself.”

My mouth opens, closes, and then opens again, but no sound comes out. How is he so nonchalant about all of this?