"Couldn't sleep--smelled the coffee. We had a late delivery; see if you can get the stuff out before it gets busy." "Tweet, tweet." Ann acted grumpy, was grumpy, especially early in the day, but there was no edge to it. The feeling was directed more at herself. Willow did what she was told without resentment, agreeing with Ann's pronouncements whenever possible. Ann wasn't around that much. The whole idea was that Willow would open the Deli and let her sleep. Ann took a cup of coffee upstairs, grumbling about the Pentagon and Johnson's war. Willow began pricing cans of delicacies. Stocking was easy; it was the little price stickers that slowed her down. She was in the back room, looking down into a carton, when a voice called out, "Anybody home?" She saw a familiar head of red hair. Patrick, she realized as she came to the front of the store. "Hi, I was in the back." Now that was intelligent, she thought. Patrick was considering the meat and cheese on display in the counter cooler. "Is it Patrick?" Brilliant. He straightened and turned. "Himself," he said. "Good morning, Willow. What are you doing here?" "Working, natch." She saw him start to grin; probably he thought she was a little rich girl. "Oh," he said. "Could you make me a roast beef sandwich? To go?" "White, wheat, pumpernickel, light rye, dark rye? . . . " "Dark rye." "You want some horseradish in there? Mayo? What?" Patrick rubbed his chin. "Hell of a decision," he said. He turned his face up to the universe for guidance. "Horseradish?" "Horseradish," she said firmly. "And a little mayo on the other side. I'll wrap the pickle separately, so it won't get soggy." "Pickles are supposed to be soggy." He was grinning again. "The sandwich, Patrick." "Ah." He was altogether pleased with himself. She made the sandwich, mumbling like a junior Ann, and at the last moment included an extra pickle. "There," she said. As he gave her a five dollar bill, the edge of his palm brushed her fingers. She put the change on the counter between them, not wanting to touch him again; she was still feeling his hand, pleasantly hard against hers, and she wanted to go on enjoying it. "Off you go," she said. "Gotta put the paint on the wall. That's what Wilson says." He took the bag and the change. "Maybe I'll see you and Amber at the Depresso." Damn him. "Maybe." She gave him her best Mona Lisa smile and flicked some hair back over her shoulder. A horn honked. "Speaking of Wilson . . . " he said. "Thanks." He's cute, she thought. Her hand was still warm where he had touched her. Like the ocean, his eyes darkened, the deeper she looked. The next morning, Patrick was back. "Good sandwich," he said. He meant it, and she felt a warm stirring. God, not a blush!