Sutton (The Billionaires of Whispers #5)

Chapter 1

Nikki - The Diner Girl

It’s quiet, the calm before the storm of the afternoon rush.

“Nikki, can you put on a fresh pot?” My boss, Rochelle, doesn’t look at me as she walks past, wiping the counter on her way, before she steps into the back to check on the kitchen. She’s a multitasker specialist, always on the go.

Working at Delish Diner in the small town of Whispers wasn’t a dream of mine. But in the dead of night, when I needed to run, it was the only place that sounded familiar.

“Fresh coffee coming up.” My moves are habitual, even as my attention keeps flicking to the door.

Having been here for months now, I know how to brew coffee, how to balance multiple dishes as I serve, how to wipe a counter so it’s spotless, all while doing it with a smile on my face.

The skills of which I never collected from my childhood home.

The one with nannies, chefs, and housekeepers.

“I’m here.” James pushes through the door, and my shoulders lower instantly.

“Hey, kiddo. I’ve got a cupcake with your name on it.” Being away from him all day has my anxiety skyrocketing. But he needs an education, and with me working the day shift so I can be with him at night, it leaves homeschooling out of the question.

“Chocolate?” He jumps up onto the stool at the end of the counter, his usual spot, away from the door, hidden by other patrons.

His heavy bag hits the floor, full of books, as usual.

As he grins at me, my heart expands. He smiles more now than he ever has, further cementing that we made the right choice in coming here.

“Nothing beats it.” I slide the small plate with the chocolatey goodness across the counter to him, along with a glass of milk, and both are gone within a minute.

I always ask Rochelle to take the cost of the daily cupcake from my wage, but she never does.

She looks after me better than I deserve.

The two of us are so familiar with each other now, we move around this diner in unison, picking up each other’s orders, cleaning up each other’s tables.

“Hungry today, my boy?” Rochelle walks back out from the kitchen, a tray of warm baked goods in her hands like she knows exactly what we’re both thinking. The smell of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies is enough to have my own stomach twisting with a craving.

“I skipped lunch,” James tells her, and my head snaps to him, my frown instant.

“What do you mean, you skipped lunch?” Truth be told, his lunch isn’t much.

A peanut butter and jelly sandwich, an apple from the small tree we have in our yard at the cottage, and if we’re lucky, maybe a small granola bar when I work a few extra hours or my tips allow it.

But regardless, he needs to eat. He’s a growing boy.

He shrugs. “I wasn’t hungry.” He doesn’t meet my eyes, so I know he’s lying.

It’s hard being the new kid. Trying to make friends without getting too close.

But as he pulls his books from his bag to start his homework, I leave him be.

He’s a good kid, and I don’t want to put too much pressure on him.

As I grab a dishcloth and clean up his crumbs, I hear the familiar small screech of the back door opening, and my breath hitches, the air around me changing.

“Oh, I was wondering when he would turn up today,” Rochelle murmurs from beside me.

Sutton Silvers. Hollywood heartthrob and billionaire celebrity sneaks into the diner from the back door nearly every day as of recently.

The only customer Rochelle allows to do so.

His head is lowered, his baseball hat pulled down to cover most of his face, but you can’t miss his tall stature, commanding presence, or the way he looks in his fitted t-shirt and jeans. God, he looks good.

“Can you look after him today? I’ve got to get the chicken pies out of the oven.”

We’re under strict instructions from Rochelle not to tell anyone Sutton’s here.

Not to broadcast it to friends or put it out on social media.

None of that’s hard for me. I know what it takes to stay hidden, and my lips are sealed.

He slides into the last booth at the back of the diner, the one that’s fast becoming his personal space.

“I’ll handle it.”

The front door chimes as I walk toward him, and I look over my shoulder, seeing a group of young men, probably in their early twenties and close to my age.

They come to the diner a few times a month, from Williamstown, I’m told.

They never tip, always leer at me, and leave a very bad taste in my mouth with every encounter.

“I’ll get them.” Rochelle is quick. A no-nonsense woman, she marches over to take their orders, and I grin, thankful she gives me the easier customer.

“Hey, Sutton. Your usual?” I don't bother writing it down, but I bring my notepad and pen with me anyway because I need something to do with my hands. They sweat every time I talk to him.

He looks up at me, his deep brown eyes connecting with mine, and doesn’t say anything for a moment.

“Coffee would be great.”

Nodding, I don’t ask questions. I already know how he likes it.

“Does Rochelle have any of those chicken pies?” he asks before I walk away.

After being hungry all day, now is the time my stomach rumbles.

His eyes shoot down to my stomach, then flick back to my face. Shit. I was hoping he wouldn’t hear that. Mouth opening to say something, he closes it quickly and takes a deep breath, like he’s holding in his words.

I clear my throat. “Just fresh out of the oven, actually.”

“I’ll take one of those too.” He glances past me at James, before his attention comes back to me. My hands grip tightly to my notepad, my protective instincts kicking in.

“Both are coming right up.” Turning quickly, I march back to the counter to get his order in. The man makes me nervous. Not because he’s a famous movie star; if anything, that fact repels me. But there’s something about him. Something that intrigues me… just a little.

“Nikki, why do some buildings stay standing in earthquakes, but others fall apart?” James asks me as he chews the end of his pencil. I grab the fresh pot of coffee and my service cloth.

“It’s all about structure and flexibility.

The best buildings have designs that absorb shock, things like reinforced steel frames or base isolators that let them move with the ground instead of fighting it.

” The information rolls off my tongue easily.

MIT was hard, but I graduated, right before we escaped in the dead of night, taking a Greyhound bus with our hats pulled low and all our possessions in a small duffel.

“So why don’t they make every building like that?” His follow-up question gives me pause.

“Money, mostly. Safety costs. They build fast and cheap, without thinking about the consequences.”

“What’s with all the questions, kiddo?” Rochelle moves around quickly as more people stream in, and I know I need to get back to work.

“We’re going to visit the sheriff's office tomorrow on a field trip. I want to be prepared with questions. Our topic is disaster relief.”

Swallowing hard, I try not to show any emotion.

Not that visiting the sheriff is bad. He comes in here a lot, and I’ve met him many times.

He’s Rochelle's husband, the two of them almost inseparable.

But if anyone were going to try to find us, I have a feeling the local sheriff would be the first person to be notified.

Swallowing down that concern, I agree with him. “It’s good to be prepared.”

James looks at me as I walk away, his smile slipping, giving me a little nod. He knows. We’ve talked about it at length.

“One hot coffee…” I stand at Sutton’s table and pour him a fresh cup.

“Your kid asks good questions.”

I stop mid pour. James and I weren't talking loudly, but with no one here to talk to, Sutton is probably attuned to the conversations around him.

James is here every day after school, doing his homework and reading books, sitting at the end of the counter for an hour until I finish my shift.

Sutton has seen him around multiple times but never commented until now.

This is new. Sutton normally doesn’t talk much, doesn’t look up or around.

He’s staying with his brother, but rumors have it that he’s building a house here.

Liking the privacy a small town like Whispers brings.

For weeks, I’ve served him, and we’ve barely said two words to each other.

But I know his eyes follow me wherever I go.

I can feel him watching me. Caught him a few times too.

“He’s smart,” I say simply, placing the coffee in front of him.

He looks back at James and then me again. “He looks like you.”

My heart thuds harder as the fear of people knowing too much creeps in.

One of the first things we did when we left Manhattan was dye our hair.

My usual blond tresses are now black. The upkeep is one that boxed dye ensures I do almost monthly.

James grew his hair, looking less polished than he did when attending one of the most expensive private schools in New York.

Again, I color it, trying anything and everything to keep our real identities hidden.

So far, no one’s come looking, although I know there are missing person posters everywhere in the city.

Here, in Whispers, is a world away from all that.

“He would hate to hear you say that.” I make light of it as a small grin comes to my face. It’s the truth; James would hate to be compared to a girl.

“Shouldn’t be. It’s a compliment.”

My smile stalls as my eyes meet his. The air around us thickens. Taking a breath, I reinforce my shield.

“Let me just go get your pie.” I ignore his statement and walk briskly back to the counter.

I haven’t had many genuine compliments in my life.

Instead, many merely tokens, off-the-cuff remarks that are said without even looking at me.

That’s what happens when people want to get to know your father rather than you.

They use you to get to him, using a cloud of contrived bullshit to cover their real agendas.

“Can I just grab a small chicken pie for Sutton?” I ask as I approach the counter. They smell amazing as Rochelle pushes the hot little potpies from the tray into the large display dish.

“Sure, honey.” The roar of my stomach has her pausing. “Sounds like you need one too?” She looks at me in a way that a mother might look at their daughter. Knowingly. “Did you eat today?”

Her eyebrows pinch when I don’t respond. No, I haven’t eaten. I took my lunch break and sat in the park down near the school, eating an apple that was so old I should’ve stewed it. I also skipped breakfast, giving James the last bagel, which I’m now thankful for because he skipped lunch.

“Of course,” I lie. My fake smile is wide, but my stomach betrays me once again.

She clicks her tongue, a move my own mother used to do, giving me a sense of warmth that’s been absent for too long.

“Go give Sutton his pie, and I’ll put one on a plate for you and one for James.”

“No, Rochelle, we’re fine—”

She interrupts me quickly, frowning, giving me her don’t-mess-with-me face.

“The afternoon rush is about to start, and I don’t need you fainting on me.

” Her voice is matter of fact, and I suck in a sharp breath.

I know what she's doing. She acts tough, but she’s a big softy underneath.

I’m glad I met her; her heart is pure gold.

But I hate handouts. I’m the last person who deserves them.

Yet she’s right. I don’t want to faint, not here.

Not now. So I deliver Sutton his pie and walk back to sit with James, the two of us eating quickly.

With my stomach now settled, I get started on my last hour here, relieved I don’t need to scrounge up something for dinner tonight.