Mating Chaos (Crimson Hollow #16)

Chapter One

“Maybe this week was just a fluke,” Zack muttered on his way to table four, or was it table two?

Whatever number it was wanted pancakes, which Zack had already delivered to table seven—or was that nine?

—where a retired couple was now staring at them with polite confusion but were too kind to say so immediately.

“I am so sorry.” He collected the plates from the couple with a smile, hoping it appeared genuine rather than showing the anxiety currently taking up residence behind his ribs. “These belong to someone else. Let me get your oatmeal and toast.”

“Oh, don’t fuss, honey,” the woman said, which was genuinely nice of her, and made Zack feel even worse. “And we ordered omelets, not oatmeal.”

“Right. Eggs.” Crap. He cut back through the diner toward the pass-through, narrowly avoiding a collision with Jace, who sidestepped him with the practiced ease of someone who had been navigating this floor for longer than a week.

“That’s three,” Jace said, not unkindly.

“I’m aware of the count,” Zack lied.

Hash It Out was the kind of diner that looked like it had always existed, like it had simply grown out of the ground one morning fully formed, with its black-and-white tile floor and rows of vinyl stools along the counter. The booths were worn in a way that suggested affection rather than neglect.

It was a good place to work. Zack had decided that on day one, and nothing that had happened since had changed his mind, including the current morning he was having.

In under twenty minutes he’d misrouted three orders and Axel, who owned the place, was watching from behind the counter.

Your constant eagle eye is only stressing me out even more than I already am.

“Eggs are up,” Axel called out.

“Got it.” Zack grabbed the plates, double-checked the table number he’d written on his pad, triple-checked it, and delivered them to the correct people, who thanked him.

A man in a flannel shirt at the counter had laughed when his coffee went to the wrong seat.

A woman with two small children hadn’t bothered looking up from the chaos of her own table when Zack had quietly swapped her order out.

He’d discovered that people were mostly decent about his mistakes. That was the thing about small-town diners. Everyone was too caffeinated and too hungry to hold a grudge.

At least, Zack really hoped that was true.

He refilled two coffees, took a new order from a teenager who wanted a breakfast sandwich with no tomato and extra cheese, and wrote it down with the grim concentration of someone determined not to invent a fourth breakfast by accident.

The bell above the door chimed as he was heading back toward the pass-through.

Zack glanced back automatically.

The man who walked in was flat-out gorgeous. Not movie-star gorgeous. Worse. The kind of gorgeous that made your brain briefly forget what it had been doing.

The stranger moved like he had all the time in the world, broad shoulders stretching a gray T-shirt in ways that should probably be illegal before noon.

Zack wiped his mouth to confirm he wasn’t actually drooling.

That jawline alone had to have been carved by the gods. And the close-cropped black hair looked soft enough that Zack’s fingers itched to test the theory.

For, say, an hour. Maybe two.

The guy’s eyes made a quick sweep of the diner before he slid into the empty booth by the wall.

Zack stood frozen at the pass-through with his order pad clutched to his chest.

Do not sigh dreamily.

Do not sigh dreamily.

Then it hit him.

The stranger had sat in his section.

I have to actually talk to him.

Zack looked down at the order pad, heat creeping up his neck.

You’re taking his order, not proposing marriage. Just breathe. Not so deep you pass out, though. That would be worse.

After one last internal pep talk, Zack forced his feet to move toward the booth, wondering exactly how spectacularly he was about to ruin this man’s breakfast.

“Morning.” He poised his pen over the pad, determined to get the order right. “Coffee?”

The guy looked up from his menu, and Zack felt momentarily lost in those pretty brown eyes.

“Please.”

Zack blinked several times before he could finally look away.

Sure, the stranger was gorgeous. Ridiculously so. But not enough to make Zack’s brain short-circuit like this.

He really needed to get out more.

Even though it had only been one word, Zack wrote it down carefully and turned to leave, only for his hip to bump the edge of the table.

The impact sounded much louder than it actually was. The table rattled, the salt shaker tipped, and the menu tried to make a break for freedom.

Zack caught the menu with one hand while his pen slipped from the other, hit the floor, and rolled under the booth.

“Sorry,” he squeaked. “The table is closer than it looks. I'll, over there, your coffee.”

First he had to retrieve his pen.

Crouching down, he reached under the booth, then slowly realized he was kneeling at the man’s feet.

Face level with his crotch.

Oh god.

Zack didn’t bother looking around. He could feel every pair of eyes in the diner laser-focused on him.

Even the background noise seemed to dip, like the whole room was holding its breath.

Meanwhile his legs apparently had no interest in standing back up, perfectly content resting at this god’s feet like a worshipper.

Great. Wonderful. Perfect way to give the wrong impression.

He grabbed the pen and shot to his feet, nearly cracking his skull on the underside of the table.

Without looking back, Zack bolted for the counter, his face burning.

Jace was pouring juice at the far end.

“Don’t,” Zack said.

“Didn’t say a word.” Jace smirked.

“You were about to.”

Carefully, Zack poured the coffee, set it on a small tray, and carried it back to the booth with the focused care of someone transporting a donated kidney. He set the tray down without dropping it, thank god.

“Ready to order?” he asked, voice and hands trembling just a little.

“Scrambled eggs and toast.” The man closed the menu and set it at the edge of the table. “Thanks.”

“Sure, absolutely, scrambled brains and toast coming right up.” Zack wrote it down. He’d been writing things down all morning and misdelivering them anyway, but he was committed to the process. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

He was two steps away when the man spoke again, and something about the timbre of his voice made it feel like he’d reached out and physically brushed Zack’s skin.

“You’re new here.”

Zack paused, then turned. “Me? Nah. I’ve been here for years, serving the wrong orders like a pro.”

Their eyes locked and Zack forgot what he was pretending not to feel.

The corner of the guy’s mouth twitched. “Pretty damn sure I would’ve noticed you before now.” He winked.

Zack’s lungs forgot their basic function.

“Last week, technically.” He leaned against the neighboring booth, the middle of the floor suddenly unstable. “I’m getting the hang of it. Mostly. There have been some minor navigation issues with the order system.”

“I heard about the pancakes.”

Zack gaped at him. “Dude, how?”

“Small town.” The man tossed a beefy arm across the back of the booth, and Zack definitely noticed the way those dark eyes swept over him. “I’m Colton, by the way.”

“Zack.” He pointed at himself, because apparently his hands had decided they were part of this conversation now. “That’s me.”

“Nice to know.” Colton flicked a glance at the name tag pinned to Zack’s shirt.

Right. The name tag.

Zack glanced down at it like he needed to confirm the information himself, which was a perfectly normal and not remotely embarrassing thing to do.

“I should put your order in,” Zack said, giving himself a reason to retreat before he did something even more embarrassing. “Before I forget, which, full disclosure, is a real possibility this morning.”

Colton’s low laugh followed him all the way back to the pass-through.

Zack handed the ticket through the window, then stayed there for a moment with both palms flat on the counter, staring at the coffee maker while having a brief internal conversation about chilling the hell out.

His brain didn’t listen. Within fifteen minutes he’d returned to Colton’s table twice. Once with a coffee refill. Once because table two needed ketchup and his route just happened to take him past that particular booth.

Both times Colton looked up, and both times Zack said something that were technically words.

Their fingers hadn’t touched when Zack set poured the coffee, but the near miss was enough to make him walk back to the counter slightly off-balanced.

When he brought Colton’s food out, the plate landed at the table where it was supposed to land, which he considered a miracle given his morning.

“Over easy eggs, wheat toast, home fries.” He set down a bottle of ketchup.

Colton’s gaze slid from his plate to Zack. “You doing okay?”

Zack opened his mouth to deliver the usual response, the yeah, totally fine, everything’s great, nothing to see here line he’d been deploying most of his life.

But nothing came out.

Colton leaned in, lowering his voice like he was sharing something that didn’t need an audience. “You’re doing just fine, you know.” He’d said it like it was an obvious thing that someone had just forgotten to mention.

The reassurance made Zack feel just a little less invisible.

“Most people’s definition of fine isn’t three wrong tables,” he joked.

“Most people aren’t paying attention.” Colton held his gaze for a moment before picking up his fork. “I am.”

It was unsettling how easily Colton had disarmed him.

“Enjoy your breakfast.” I’m totally not running away. Zack made a beeline for the counter.

Jace appeared at his elbow. “Table six needs a check.”

“On it.” Zack grabbed the slip and headed in the opposite direction of Colton, but his traitorous eyes drifted toward the booth.

Colton was focused on his food, yet Zack would’ve sworn those pretty brown eyes were tracking hid every move.

Shrugging, he ran the check, cleared two tables, refilled the counter coffees, and absolutely did not look back toward Colton.

Liar. Okay, maybe he’d looked once. Twice? Okay, fine. Every ten seconds.

By the time he looped past the booth again, Colton was staring out the window like he’d gotten lost in his own thoughts.

“Top off?” Zack lifted the pot, waiting for an answer.

“Sure.” Colton watched him pour. “What time do you get off?”

The carafe hovered for half a second. Zack set it down carefully. Spilling hot coffee on a man he’d just met would have been a brand-new category of disaster, even by this morning’s standards.

“Three,” Zack said. “Why?”

“Second Scoops.” Colton stirred cream into his coffee. “Ice cream place two blocks over. You know it?”

“I’ve walked past it.” Which was technically true. He’d also stood outside the window a few times, staring at the display case like it might personally invite him in.

Then he’d walked away.

Most of his life he’d been overweight, and after working hard to shed most of it, Zack was determined not to gain it back.

“Care to join me after work?” Colton asked, taking a sip of his coffee.

Zack meant to say no. Instead, he nodded. What the heck? His body really needed to stop moving without his permission.

“Great. I’ll meet you here at three.”

“Three,” Zack repeated. Then he walked away, wondering if Colton was actually real or just a figment of his overworked brain. If he wasn’t real, Zack decided he would simply pretend otherwise. Therapy was expensive and he was flat broke.

Probably the worst coping strategy imaginable. But on the bright side, his possible hallucination was smoking-hot.