CHAPTER 7
Aiden
“What the actual hell?” I say, stomping down the street toward the diner.
“No coffee?” Renaldo smirks at me, clearly having seen the exchange while he waited outside.
I don’t answer as I make a beeline for the diner. He follows as I storm into the place on a singular mission. I want a coffee, I’m getting a damn coffee.
What is it with that woman? So what if I offended her precious little feelings with my rant about her town last night. This is business. I tell the truth because the truth is helpful. I meant to explain as much last night before she smiled and fled but I was trapped.
Those eyes.
They were greener than the four leaf clovers on her tray. So green she must wear colored contacts. I couldn’t speak, I could only stare, trying to find the line of the lenses outside of her irises.
Never found the line. Then she was gone.
I considered another attempt at smoothing things over with her this morning, until she took one look at me and booted me out of her shop. Again.
Unreal.
It’s only a few strides to the counter top, complete with round topped barstools from the 1950s, if not earlier. We stand there and wait, since there’s not a soul to be found behind the counter or in the visible part of the kitchen. Of course. No urgency to, oh, I don’t know, make actual money!
“This town…” I murmur to my counterpart before taking in my surroundings.
I expected diner lore from the same era as the stools, back when there were sock hops or whatever.
But instead I find…space garb? Neon, model ships, galaxies and artwork from the seventies.
Plus Star Wars memorabilia from movies made just a few years ago.
A life-size Chewbaca in the corner next to an equally large Tesla rocket model.
Nothing matches or makes much sense, outside of being loosely related to outer space.
I must make a noise, prompting Renaldo to say, “Comet.”
I blink hard and exhale, ignoring him.
I’m not daft, I picked up on the reason for the decor. Just because I could puzzle it out doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.
Finally, a person appears behind the counter, humming and taking their sweet time.
“Cup of coffee. Please,” I grit out to the Black woman. I recognize her from a town meeting. She and her husband own this establishment. Or rather, I own it and they lease the space from me.
Her mouth agape, she wordlessly pours a cup and slides it across the sticky, overly-lacquered wood surface.
I nod before picking it up and taking a couple large swigs.
Renaldo takes a normal-sized sip beside me.
His eyes go wide.
“Not a word,” I say.
It is, by far, no contest, the most disgusting cup of coffee I’ve ever tasted.
I try not to cough. Or die.
Shit.
Okay, so maybe it’s me who’s made a huge mistake.
Not that I’ll ever say so out loud.
The Grill must have coffee.
Hell, the town a few miles away has a Starbucks, I think.
And I’m a grown man. I can buy an espresso machine and make my own coffee.
All fine.
All preferable to having to deal with Harper. I’ve months to go before I can hand this project off to a manager. Until then, I’ll just have to avoid her as much as possible.