A little Jedda for anyone stopping by to check us out:
Rosie’s late-night, Manhattan crowd was a mixture of the beautiful and the strange and no one batted an eyelash at either. While the streets were rather quiet due to the time of night, the minute the door opened, the sounds of laughter and mischief, mixed with clanking dinner plates and the occasional breaking of glass, flooded the sidewalk, enticing the random passerby to sneak a peak inside and see what the hullabaloo was about. More often than not, they were sucked into the festivities, pulled in by the joie de vivre of the crowd and delicious smells of the kitchen.
Jedda was not a random passerby.
He was a regular, with a booth in the back, his personal chef’s plate, a combination of the meatloaf special and fried chicken basket with sides of greens and limas all sitting on a pillowy bed of garlicky mashed potatoes, and all the scotch one shifter could possibly imbibe. But tonight none of that mattered; his one and only interest was the woman in white.
“What the hell are you doing in New York City?” he growled as he slid into his booth, “and here, at Rosie’s, of all the godforsaken places.”
“I wanted to see you,” she pouted, her red lips appearing fuller than usual, sensually kissable.
“You wanted to see me?” Jedda asked with irritation, “what are you, a twelve year old child?”