Dream a Little Dream (Chicago Stars, #4)(224)

The diner’s gravel lot contained mostly pickups. As he parked between two of them, she regarded the place with distaste. Its dirty mustard asphalt shingles and flickering neon beer signs hardly looked promising. “I think we should go back to the Hardee’s.”

“I like this place.”

“It’s not respectable.”

“Good.” He jerked the keys from the ignition and threw open the door.

It was going to be a long weekend if his mood didn’t improve soon. Gruder Mathias, one of the town’s retired clergy, was preaching for Ethan on Sunday, and Monday was his day off, so he wouldn’t be in any hurry to get back.

With a sigh of resignation, she trailed after him to the entrance, which featured a pair of heavy wooden doors in a fake Mediterranean motif. She heard the whine of a country ballad even before they stepped inside.

A blast of air-conditioning plastered her tomato-red ribbed tank dress to her body. She smelled hot grease and stale beer. At the dimly lit bar, a group of ol’ boys wearing gimme caps and muddy jeans sat drinking beer and smoking.

Since it was still relatively early, most of the tables were vacant, as were the brown vinyl booths. Dusty plastic vines that looked as if they’d been stapled to the paneled walls a decade earlier provided the decor, along with some framed health-department certificates that had to be forgeries.

Ethan steered her to a booth in the back. As soon as they were settled, the bartender, a no-neck bald-headed man, called over for their drink order. “What’ll you have?”

“Coke,” she replied, hesitating only a moment before she added, “In the can, please.”

“I’ll have scotch on the rocks.”

Kristy gazed at Ethan in surprise. She’d never seen him drink strong liquor. He didn’t even order margaritas in Mexican restaurants.

She had to remind herself that he was no longer her responsibility, so she bit her tongue.


One of the men at the bar turned to stare at her. Having men notice her was still new enough to make her uncomfortable, so she pretended not to notice.

The bartender brought over their drinks, then slapped down two laminated menus sticky with old condiments. “Jeannie’ll be with you in a minute. Special tonight is fried catfish.” He walked away.

Kristy poked the grubby menus out of the way with her little finger. Ignoring the empty glass of ice cubes, she wiped the rim of the can with her paper napkin before she took a drink. The Coke was warm, but at least it was sanitary.

The man at the bar continued to watch her. He was young, maybe in his mid-twenties, with a Miller Lite T-shirt and powerful biceps. She tugged nervously on one of her fake diamond studs. Her short tank dress was sexy, but not so trashy that it served as an open invitation, and she wished he’d look somewhere else.

Ethan took a sip of scotch and shot the man an accusing glare. “What do you think you’re looking at?”

She gasped. “Ethan!”

The man at the bar shrugged. “Don’t see no ‘sold’ sign on her.”

“Maybe that’s because you can’t read.”

Her eyes widened with dismay. Ethan, the dedicated pacifist, seemed to be spoiling for a fight with a brute who outweighed him by at least fifty pounds, all of it muscle.

The man at the bar uncoiled from the stool, and she swore she saw the light of anticipation in Ethan’s blue eyes. Her mind raced. What would Rachel do?

She gulped and held up her hand toward the muscular man. “Please don’t take offense. He hasn’t been the same since he gave up the priesthood.” It wasn’t much of a lie, she thought.

But the bully didn’t appear to be buying it. “He doesn’t look like a priest.”

“That’s because he isn’t anymore.” She took a deep breath. “He’s very protective of me. I’m . . . uh . . . Sister Kristina, his . . . sister.”

“You’re a nun?” His gaze slid to the scooped neck of her tank dress.

“Yes, I am. And God bless you.”

“You don’t look like a nun.”

“My order doesn’t wear habits.”

“Aren’t you at least supposed to wear crucifixes or something?”

She tugged on the delicate gold chain around her neck and withdrew the small gold cross that nestled between her breasts.

“Sorry, Sister.” He shot another dark glance at Ethan, then he settled back on his stool.

Ethan regarded her with annoyance. “Just what in the Sam Hill do you think you’re doing?”

“Keeping you out of a barroom fight!”

“Maybe I don’t want to be kept out.”

“Catfish!” she called over to the bartender. “We’ll have the fried catfish. And bless you, too,” she added belatedly.

Ethan rolled his eyes, but to her relief, he didn’t pursue the subject. Instead, he pursued his scotch, and by the time an overly made-up, dark-haired waitress wearing cutoffs and a Garth Brooks T-shirt arrived with their food, he’d finished it.

“I’ll have another scotch.”

“Ethan, you’re driving.”

“Mind your own business, Sister Bernadine.”

The waitress gave her a suspicious look. “I heard you earlier. I thought you said your name was Sister Kristina.”