The Halo Effect (Cupid Chronicles) (29 page)

Did you miss Jed and Kyle’s story?

Want to know how a bumbling but determined cupid can match up a surly tattoo artist and a mousy accountant?

Pick up
Inked by an Angel : Book I of the Cupid Chronicles

Available now from Soul Mate Publishing

Is Michael’s heart prepared to match up a fallen brother?

Is such redemption possible?

Please turn the page for a preview of:

Wounded Wings:

Book III of the Cupid Chronicles

Coming this Winter from Soul Mate Publishing

Elijah rolled up to New Destiny, Arizona with only three things on his agenda. A full tank of gas, a Denver omelet, and keeping on the road to get as many miles between him and New York’s bad memories as humanly possible.

Humanly possible. He was still getting used to that concept.

His 1989 sedan gave a painful chug and died in front of the New Destiny Diner. A positive step in the direction of his omelet plan, but it did not bode well for him getting on the road anytime soon.

He rounded his hood, which was puffing out ominous gusts of overheated air, and noticed a loud clacking noise that hadn’t been there before. Maybe he’d have to break into his little reserve of cash and have a mechanic look it over before he moved on. If he could even start it again. Unfortunately, he had zero mechanical skills to draw upon. Frustratingly, he had very few humanly skills to draw upon, which had gotten him laughed at more than once, and very nearly into trouble a time or two on the road. What he wouldn’t have given for a few more earthly assignments to learn human ways before . . .

He had no idea humans were so . . .
unforgiving
of simple misunderstandings.

He eyed the front of the diner. It was typical of a hundred other small town diners he’d been to. Worn brick exterior, wide glass windows with shoe polish writing extolling the latest special or, in this case, the high school football team. Next door a small bakery—Vi’s Sweet Spot—had delectable scents drifting out, making his stomach grumble. Across the street sat a hardware store and a floral shop with bags of mulch already stacked on the sidewalk ready for spring planting. Two doors down was Delaney’s Beauty Parlor.

But, by far, the diner was obviously the center of this town and several cars were already crowding the lot, even at six-twenty in the morning. It seemed like a nice town and he had an idle thought that he could see the appeal of living in a place like it, but as quickly as the thought occurred to him, he dismissed it. He was moving on. Where, he wasn’t sure, but he’d know it when he found it, and peace would hopefully find him there one day. If he was lucky.

He pushed open the door to the diner and was greeted by the hustle and bustle of customers joking and greeting each other, dishes clanking, the morning news streaming from an overhead flat screen, the cash register ringing up orders and banging shut. The scent of perfectly brewed coffee welcomed him and he looked around, wondering if this was a seat-yourself kind of place. With no sign to instruct him, he took a chance and perched on a stool at the counter, which was nearly the only available seat other than a large table in the center of the place and a lone booth.

Behind the kitchen window, an overweight cook had sweat dripping down his face and didn’t appear to be in any hurry to get any of the numerous orders off of his turnstile as the waitress shoved them up at an impossible rate.

Finally, a sweet, young slip of a girl jogged up to Elijah. “Mornin’. What’ll ya have? Special is French toast with a side of sausage links and hash brown casserole.”

“Good morning . . .” He glanced down at her nametag. “Maura.” He smiled up into her surprised blue eyes as she offered him a tentative half-smile and waited for his order as the customers behind him roared with laughter, momentarily distracting them both. “Just orange juice and a Denver omelet. Please.”

She wrote it down. “You want any bacon or sausage on the side, or picante sauce with that?”

“No, thank you.”

She rushed off to place his order on the rack with the multitude of others then brought him back a large glass of cold, fresh squeezed juice. He thanked her and took a sip, picking up the discarded paper next to him. He tended to mind his own business in each new town he came to, as it kept him out of trouble and he didn’t have to talk to many people that way. But, the news was sparse and uninteresting, and the people-watching was far more entertaining. Besides, he knew he really needed to learn human ways. As awkward as it was at times.

A man, apparently the Sheriff, sat in a far booth laughing with an elderly gentleman about something that got away. The way they spoke, it became obvious it was simply another human colloquialism Elijah didn’t understand. He pulled out his pocket-sized spiral notebook and made a note to look it up and find out what that meant. Right after “time flies,” “screw yourself,” and “yo, dog” that was obviously not the canine version. Oh, and he needed to find out what that Spam stuff was. He’d been among humans, in and out, for centuries, but they changed so rapidly he had trouble keeping up. Especially when so much of his previous work was not on Earth.

He glanced over as the front door opened again and was awestruck for the first time since . . . since the night he’d first laid eyes on Sarah.

His heart seized up at the realization. What could that possibly mean? He studied the woman who entered as she walked across the threshold and up to an older woman at the front counter. She looked nothing like his Sarah. Nothing in the way she held herself was similar, so why was his gut churning like he recognized the pretty blonde?

He strained to listen as she spoke.

“Hi, Sharla. Here’s enough stuff to get you through today.” She hefted a basket up onto the counter. “Aunt Vi even threw in some of her famous Mississippi Mud cake.”

The lady behind the counter grinned. “Well, that oughta sell out in no time. Thanks, Naomi. Why don’t you stay for a cup of coffee or some breakfast?”

The blonde shook her head. “No, thanks. You look busy enough and we already ate. I need to go back and help get the shop ready for the rest of the day.” She glanced over toward his waitress, Maura. “Hey. How’s Emma?”

A genuine smile lit the waitress’s face. “She’s good. Thanks for asking.”

“Tell her I said hello. We put a couple sugar cookies in there for her.”

“She’ll like that. Thank you.”

The blonde—Naomi—nodded and stepped toward the door. “Well, I’ll see you same time tomorrow.”

The woman behind the counter waved. “All right.”

Something in Elijah uncoiled as she stepped out the door and he breathed a sigh of relief.

He turned back to try again with the paper wondering who in their right mind would want to eat a mud cake, but had no better luck with the scant news or the crossword puzzle that someone had already done. He glanced toward the kitchen area. The cook was still sweating like he was in a sauna and moving at the speed of molasses, but now the woman from the front counter was in the kitchen speaking with him, her brows turned down in annoyance. The cook gestured with a spatula, sending rivulets of grease flying through the air.

Elijah sipped his juice and turned his attention to straightening his salt and pepper shakers, hoping that his omelet was next in line because he was starving and he really wanted to be on his way.

Suddenly, raised voices were directly in front of him as the cook was moving toward the exit, the woman trailing him.

“Chuck! Wait! You can’t just leave. It’s the busiest time of day and we don’t have anyone to replace you.”

“Listen, Sharla.” The cook untied his grease-stained apron from his rotund belly and pulled it off. “I’ve had enough of you telling me to speed it up. I work at my own pace. So, if you don’t like it, you can try making all that slop yourself.” He tossed the apron on the counter in a wilted heap and walked away, leaving the woman nearly in tears.

She looked at Elijah. “I . . .” She obviously didn’t know him, and she obviously had no idea what to say, but she tried to pull it together as she picked up the soiled apron. “What am I going to do? I can’t cook my way out of a cardboard box,” she said to herself. She glanced around the full diner and shook her head.

Darn it. He just wanted an omelet.

She tucked the apron under the counter and he watched as a lone tear coursed down the woman’s cheek. Something about that tugged at the core of him and was impossible to ignore.

Before he knew what he was doing, he spoke. “I can cook.”

She turned wide, surprised eyes to him. “You can?”

He may no longer be an angel, but his belief in the commandments held firm. He couldn’t lie. He nodded.

She tilted her head, obviously appraising his longish hair and stubble. “What kinda experience you got?”

He still had no idea why he was doing this, but the words left his mouth of their own accord. “I was executive chef at Le Gavroche in New York City.”

“Never heard of it.”

He shrugged.

“You sure you can sling hash and make eggs to order? That sort of thing?”

He smiled. He’d handled Coq au Vin for heads of state and Boeuf Bourguignon for somebody they called Beyoncè and her husband Jay Something-or-other. He didn’t know who they were, but everyone in the restaurant thought it was a big deal. “I’m pretty sure I can handle it.” For a little while anyway. Maybe just a day or two until his car was ready to drive.

“Hey, Sharla!” someone yelled out from across the diner. “Where’s my breakfast? I don’t have all mornin’, you know.”

She glanced over, then back to Elijah. She sighed, seeming to appraise him one last time and he could nearly feel her anxiety rise as her desperation notched up. “Well, I guess we can try you out for one shift and see how you do, then talk about it later. Whadya say?”

He stood. The sooner he got to the kitchen and got this over with, the sooner he’d get his omelet. Even if he had to make it himself. “Sounds good.”

She smiled and led him to a side opening to let him into the kitchen. “Hey, what’s your name, anyway?”

“Elijah.” He looked her in the eye. “Elijah Smith. But you can call me Eli.”