“I should’ve brought a sweatshirt,” I said. Goose pimples clung to every inch of my sun-deprived skin.
My five-year-old crinkled her freckly nose. “It’s summer.” Amber eyes giggled as she took another sip of her strawberry banana smoothie, light on the whipped cream.
“Restaurants like to keep their customers happy, a.k.a. Freezing.” I grabbed a napkin and wiped her chin.
“Why’re we here again?”
My chuckle lacked humor. One hand scratched through my chestnut hair. “Well, I was supposed to have a job interview.” I looked to the door for the fifteenth time. No sign of the recruiter.
“Is that why Grammy was gonna watch me?”
“Yes, sweetheart. But it didn’t work out so you’re here.” I pressed my lips together.
“Wish daddy was here so you didn’t have to work.”
Sigh. “I do too, hon. But he left, so now I have to work outside the home.”
“Hey,” her eyes behind me. “That’s that really old Boy Band you like, from when you were born.”
A handsome man about my age wore a Beatles shirt. “Oh right.” I cleared my throat. “They were a few years before my time.”
The man smiled. My belly clenched. When had a man last smiled at me?
“Hey mister,” my daughter yelled. “Were you born when those guys were around? My mom says she wasn’t but I’m don’t believe her.”
My eyes squeezed tight.
A deep chuckle rumbled. “Nope, not quite. But fantastic music.” I opened my eyes. He stood beside me, one lip curled up. “My name’s Eric.”
I opened my mouth.
“She’s Monica. She’s single,” my daughter cut-in.
I groaned. He laughed. “I’d love to talk Beatles, if you’re free.”
Deep inside me a teenage girl squealed. Maybe Boy Bands weren’t so bad, after all.
©Laura L. Zimmerman 2016