Afternoon Delight by Anne Calhoun Page A

food. If we didn’t eat, we’d never get called. You learn to get food to go, and to stick to things that survive a couple of hours in your pocket or in the bus.”
    She lifted an eyebrow.
    â€œWe laugh at competitive eating contests,” he said. “Amateurs who don’t have to keep down spaghetti when you get called to a stabbing.”
    â€œYou’re plenty competitive without the contests,” she said.
    â€œYou hold your own,” he said. “Have you always been like this?”
    â€œMost of my life,” she said, but refrained from saying anything more. While this morning-after conversation was going well, he didn’t need all the details about Aunt Joan before he started his shift. “I was off my game for the last couple of years. My aunt said I should try a new challenge, so here I am. How am I doing?”
    â€œYou’re a fighter,” he said easily.
    â€œDoes last night count as one half of your double-or-nothing, or both?”
    â€œBoth,” he said, and crumpled up the wax paper. “But I let you off easy.”
    â€œI wouldn’t call last night getting off easy,” she said.
    His grin quirked up one corner of his mouth. The sunlight glinted off his gold stubble. “I like watching you work for it. I hate to run, but I’m due on shift.”
    â€œDon’t worry about me,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”
    â€œYou can find your way to the park?”
    She waggled her phone at him. “I’ll be fine.”
    He left, pushing through the door in a single stride, then disappeared down the sidewalk.
    She finished her breakfast at a leisurely pace, watching the traffic move through the restaurant. They checked their phones, waited in line, ordered, waited a bit longer, accepted a paper bag containing their bagel or oatmeal or breakfast sandwich, paid, and headed out. It was a good setup, the line not blocking the coolers with bottled drinks, staffing levels more than adequate to keep people moving. Efficient.
    Shaking off the chef, she tucked her phone in her bag, cleared her tray, and set off down the street. The morning held a hint of chill, but a latte cleared that right up, allowing her to stroll rather than hustle to stay warm. She found herself on a street lined with cafés and restaurants, and engaged in her favorite pastime of reading menus and taking pictures of things that inspired her. Window boxes filled with geraniums lining the windows of a restaurant on a corner. The art on a chalkboard outside a coffee shop. Virtual presence was a must, but the actual physical experience of eating mattered so much more, and every detail counted. A sleepy New York charmed her, like waking up with someone who needed a cup of coffee and the paper to get going.
    Her phone rang while she was paging through the pictures she’d taken.
    â€œWhat’s up, Trish?”
    â€œWe got our first review. It’s just a blog run by some anonymous guy calling himself NYFoodie, but he wasn’t impressed.”
    â€œLink?” Sarah asked. A moment later a link appeared in her text stream. She clicked it, scanned through. “He didn’t say anything we didn’t know. The idea has promise, but the sauces need work.”
    â€œHe said it publicly. On the Internet. We said it in the privacy of my apartment.”
    â€œIt happens,” Sarah said. “Don’t worry about it. Tell me something positive.”
    â€œWe picked up thirty new followers, including one AnonEMT.”
    â€œThat’s good.”
    â€œWe lost eight.”
    â€œOkay, net of twenty-two.”
    â€œI think we pick them up when we offer promotions and lose them when—”
    â€œMakes sense,” Sarah said when Trish’s voice cut off. “Hello? Did I lose you?”
    â€œIs Tim AnonEMT?”
    â€œIs he what?”
    â€œAnonEMT on Twitter. He tweets safety tips and things people say on calls. He’s