Chapter Three
Emmett
Imake the long trek into town every week or so, braving the smiling denizens of Shady Rock to get the necessities. The famed southern hospitality was the biggest culture shock when I moved here, a complete one-eighty from the cold indifference of the north where I was born or the inorganic camaraderie of the military.
I’m a big guy—nearly six and a half feet tall and muscular, thanks to the rigors of living in the mountains. If my size wasn’t enough to draw the attention of nearly everyone I pass, the long scar running from my right eyebrow down to my chin, only partially hidden by my dark beard, is. The locals are used to me by now, and generally, aren’t offended by my silent nod as I pass, but visitors often cross the street to avoid walking too close to me.
I stopped by the post office when I arrived in town, collecting my mail and the packages I’d been waiting for while avoiding the curious stares from the lone employee at the desk.
I tend to be perceived as a growly loner. I’m not, really. I’m quiet, and it’s hard for me to trust people enough to have many friends. My brothers-in-arms came closer than anyone has to becoming like family, and even they don’t know much about me. Not the important stuff anyway.
Leaving the post office, I cross the street, weaving my way between a string of minivans toting kayaks and screaming children, and I feel a pang in my heart that I’ve never felt until recently. Shaking it off, I clench my fist tightly around the envelopes in my hand and head toward Sweetie’s.
While I was building my homestead, the kitchen wasn’t functional for nearly six months, and I often made the drive into Shady Rock to eat. After the first few days, I grudgingly chatted with the friendly—and persistent—waitress, Sammi, and she introduced me to her husband, Cal, the cook. Despite my prickly exterior, a tentative acquaintance was struck.
As the weeks went on, Cal shared kitchen tips and cooking became one of my guilty pleasures. After twenty years of eating what was placed in front of me, I challenged myself, learning to make delicious meals from scratch, enjoying the freedom of experimenting with ingredients. Much to my surprise, I found that I like the precision of baking even more.
The old bell rings above the door as it opens, and I spot someone in my usual booth at the back. Grinding my teeth, I divert to the opposite side of the small dining room.
“Tourists,” I mutter, glancing over my shoulder at the man sitting in my spot. I know the fragile economy here relies heavily on the influx of visitors during the summer, but I can’t help the resentment as they intrude on my peace.
Sammi saunters over to my table as a woman and young child emerge from the restroom and join him, and I force myself to look away. Smiling up at her, I grin when she pours hot coffee into the plain white mug on the table without prompting.
“Mornin,’ sugar,” she says brightly. “The usual?”
I nod, grabbing the coffee and drinking half of it down before I say a word. “You know it.”
She scribbles on the order pad before topping off the mug and walking away with a friendly wink. No matter what time of day or how busy, Sammi is always smiling. At first, it was off-putting, but now it’s part of her charm.
The diner is busier than usual, another clue to the changing season. I’m sitting by a side window, and I can feel the warm sun coming through the glass, easing some of the tension humming inside me the longer I’m away from home. People passing by glance at me, making me feel exposed. My scar is visible, facing the street, and self-consciousness flares within me, though logically, I know that they’re moving too quickly to notice.
I’m lost in thought when I hear the bell ring as the door opens. When I glance up, I see a woman enter, walking over to an empty table at the front of the diner, right in front of the window that faces the busy main street.
She pulls out a chair and sits, her profile toward me. I stare, transfixed, taking in her delicate features and dark, wavy hair falling in a curtain down her back. When she looks up at Sammi’s approach, offering her a beaming smile, my heart stutters in my chest. My fingers grip the edge of the table hard enough that I’m surprised it doesn’t break in an effort to keep myself from rushing over to her.
I bite back a groan as I watch her bend over to grab something from a bag beside her chair, the movement giving me the slightest hint of cleavage before she rights herself, giving me just enough clarity to resist her siren call. My cock is painfully hard, finally showing interest in someone real, not an anonymous face on a computer screen.
I wonder what her long hair would feel like as I run my fingers through it or if she likes it when a man holds onto it, using it to guide her up and down his cock as her lips wrap around him. My hand clenches involuntarily into a fist, pressing painfully into my thigh as I try to regain control of my imagination.
I’m not sure how long I watch her, my mind running a million miles an hour wondering who she is and what she’s doing here. Her hands are wrapped around a camera, and her lips are tipped up in a smile as she looks at images on the screen. I shake my head to clear my thoughts when jealousy whelms within me as I wonder if it’s photos of another man that have captured her attention.
“You okay, sugar?” Sammi asks, clearing her throat as she sets a large plate down in front of me. I blink, looking up at her, wondering how long she’s been standing here watching me lose my mind over a stranger.
“Fine,” I choke out, ashamed of myself.
She gives me a sassy harumph and turns to walk away.
“Thanks, Sammi,” I say before digging into my breakfast. Forcing my eyes to remain locked on my plate, I eat quickly, grabbing my wallet and tossing enough money for a week of breakfasts onto the table and rushing out of the diner without looking in her direction again.