Apple Brown Betty by Phillip Thomas Duck Page A

but—”
    â€œYou make a lot of presumptions, don’t you? Stephon’s not my boyfriend,” Cydney corrected. “He’s my boss.”
    Hard as he tried, Desmond couldn’t keep his eyes from widening with pleasure. “Oh, okay. In that case, may I ask your name?”
    â€œSure you can ask.” Cydney dropped her head and scanned the menu.
    â€œWell?”
    She continued studying the menu. “I didn’t say I’d give it.” She didn’t know why she took this playing-hard-to-get route, but something told her Desmond would appreciate the mystery of her.
    Desmond smiled, nodded. “Name isn’t important for now.”
    The confidence in Desmond’s voice stirred Cydney’s insides. She tossed her hair, looked him eye to eye. “You say now as if there will be a later.”
    â€œI haven’t been more positive of anything in my life, Miss Wonderful,” Desmond told her. He nodded. “There will definitely be a later.”
    Cydney didn’t know how to respond. Miss Wonderful. God, it was poetry to her ears.
    â€œYou’re kind of cocky about yourself, aren’t you, Mr. Rucker?”
    â€œI’m trying to be confident,” Desmond answered, “while I wonder to myself what kind of man could make you smile just at the thought of him, and if I could ever be that man.”
    â€œAll you have to do is ask me,” Cydney said.
    â€œI haven’t had very much success in asking you questions.”
    Cydney nodded. “This is true.”
    Desmond tried to mask it but there was desperation in his voice; where it came from and why it was there was a puzzle even to him. “What kind of man could make you smile with just the thought of him, Miss Wonderful?”
    Cydney had been asked variations of this same question for as long as she could remember, all women had, but something in Desmond’s eyes made her change the answer she normally gave, made her search deep within herself for the answer she didn’t even know existed. “A man,” she heard her voice say, “that makes me forget about the passage of time. A man that I’ll look at forty years after I looked at him for the first time and wonder where the years went and how it was that I lived them with such happiness and joy.”
    Desmond was as dumbfounded by her answer as she was. Again, as he’d been doing a lot of lately, he thought of his parents, his father. “Thirty years gone like that,” he said, his gaze off Cydney, wandering with his thoughts.
    â€œYes,” Cydney said.
    â€œGood answer,” Desmond said, nodding.
    â€œI don’t know where it came from,” Cydney admitted.
    â€œI don’t want to cause any problems between you and your boss, though,” Desmond offered, “so I’m going to go attend to other matters. It’s been a pleasure, Miss Wonderful.” He turned to leave and then moved back. “I’m here every day except Sundays. I hope you stop in again—without your boss.”
    Cydney’s tongue held in place, her knees shaking below the tablecloth. She nodded. Desmond moved to leave again.
    â€œDesmond—I mean, Mr. Rucker,” she summoned the strength to call to him.
    â€œPlease, call me Desmond,” he said, turning back. He looked at her as if she were a painting in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. “What can I do for you, Miss Wonderful?”
    Cydney was thrown and having a difficult time acting as if she weren’t. “What do you—what do you—recommend? From the menu, I mean.”
    Desmond reached over her, his muscular arm brushing against her, and touched a spot on the menu in her hands. His scent of Curve tickled Cydney’s flesh. “The honey-fried chicken.”
    â€œWhat about for dessert?” she asked, hypnotized by his voice and scent.
    Desmond smiled. “The apple brown betty, it’s rich, sweet, a large