Dining for Love

1. Willa

Chapter 1

Willa

I will not cry today.

The onions will not beat me.

I. Will. Win.

I do this every shift. I dice twenty onions, and somewhere around the ten-onion mark, things start to go sideways. Because that’s when my nose starts itching, and instead of wiping it on my shoulder, I sniff to make it stop, and ka-blam, it’s all she wrote.

Today is no different. Blinking rapidly, I fight the sting of impending tears from the mound of white onions piled to the right of the peppers. My eyes start to water—because I am not crying—but I persevere because we need more onions.

Lord knows that since it’s Sunday, and summer, the diner will be packed to the rafters. Sundays always mean the rentals are full, but everyone got way too trashed on the first night of their beach vacation to actually cook the food they bought at the Piggly Wiggly yesterday. I can see it now: there will be a lot of headaches, a lot of coffee requested, and a lot of my famous Hangover Omelets ordered.

The secret, if you’re wondering, is the Korean barbecue- flavored beef, plus, of course, a healthy amount of butter in the hash browns.

The bell over the door jingles, and in come my parents, Barbara and Dean Dash, the owners of Dash In Diner. Technically, they’re also my employers, but we never let that get in the way. I’ve been working here in one way or another since I was ten. First, all they let me do was roll silverware at the counter after school, my legs swinging happily as I perched on a bright red stool and chatted with the customers. Then I was a dishwasher and a hostess, and once I turned sixteen, Dad finally allowed me to join him in the kitchen.

The minute I tied the apron around me and stood in front of the grill, that was it. I was a goner. I fell in love with the fast-paced rhythm of being a diner cook, the particular language between cooks and servers, the joy of doing something that makes people happy. Even after twelve years back here, that joy hasn’t left.

“Where’s Goldie?” My sister usually bounces in ahead of them with all the energy of a toddler instead of the twenty-six years she actually is.

“She won’t be here,” Dad answers good-naturedly. “Not feeling well.”

“And the other two servers have called in sick,” my mom adds with a roll of her eyes.

I smirk. “You mean hungover.”

She shrugs and pours herself a cup of coffee, reaching for the sugar on autopilot. “Maybe, but it can’t be helped. We need you out front.”

The knife clatters to the cutting board. “No way.” We all know I’m no good at it. Why would I subject anyone, myself included, to that kind of torture?

Dad chuckles and pats my shoulder, his hand strong and sure. “You’re not that bad. ”

I gawk at him. “Dad. The last time I waited tables, I dropped an entire four-top’s order!”

He doesn’t bother with a response. Instead, he steps into his usual spot behind the grill and holds his hand out for my apron.

I sigh and untie it. “Fine. But I can’t be held responsible for what happens.”

“Willa Dean Dash,” Mom chides, her honeyed voice sharpened with irritation, “You’re perfectly skilled with more knives than I have names for, and you are a wizard in that kitchen. You could wait tables with one hand if you put your mind to it.”

Yeah, that’s…not true. But bless her for thinking it. The only place I’m steady is in the kitchen. Put me out front, and all bets are off.

Mom winks at me to soften the blow and begins the early morning routine: brewing more coffee, wiping down sticky menus, marrying the ketchup, and rolling the last bit of silverware. There’s another ten minutes before opening at seven, and then we close at three.

I’ve told my parents that they’d make so much more money if they expanded their hours, but they won’t do it. “Not worth our family’s happiness,” they say. And I guess I can’t blame them there, because my twenty-eight years have been pretty great. Living in Lucky, Alabama, right on the Gulf Coast, might not be everyone’s idea of heaven, but it is absolutely mine. There’s nothing better than this small town and its people, even if they all get on my nerves every now and again.

Jake Daniels, our other line cook, swings in ahead of opening, muttering apologies and stepping into the kitchen without much fanfare. I’d rather he be out here waiting tables, but he adamantly refuses, and apparently, Mom and Dad listen to people when they’re not family.

I look at dearly departed Granny’s iron skillet, hanging on the wall over the coffee pot, and send it a prayer. I’m gonna need all the help today I can get. At seven o’clock on the dot, Mom turns the sign to Open and the day gets going. She’ll handle all the customers behind the counter and take everyone’s payments, plus play hostess to the rest of the small diner. Together, we’ll take care of everyone as best as we can and issue the requisite apologies for any slowness and thanks for patience.

Tom and Jerry lead the path into the diner like they always do, smiling and waving as they make their way to the end of the counter for their hours of gabbing and gossiping. They’re the equivalent of those old guys in the theater box on the Muppet Show, except they’re a lot nicer. More people trickle in behind them, and before too long, we’re off and running another successful Sunday.

I’m doing pretty good and not messing things up too badly until late morning. Mom seats Chief Mac, Lucky’s police chief, at a booth instead of his usual spot at the counter. He’s got someone with him, and when I finally get a chance to turn around and say hello, I screech to a halt.

Because the man with Chief Mac might be the most gorgeous human I have ever laid my eyes on. Thick, wavy dark hair and tan skin that looks way too good beneath the white T-shirt he wears. A T-shirt that seems to be clinging onto the man’s biceps for dear life, and honestly? I might be jealous of that shirt.

“Um. H-hi.”

“Hi.” He smiles, and I blink rapidly, trying furiously not to pass out. Because holy bright smile and dimples, Batman. Is this legal?

My hands shake a little as I grab for the notepad in my server apron, but it tumbles out of my hand, the green and white pages fluttering as it flops on the ground.

Of course this happens. Why wouldn’t it?

Muttering to myself, and absolutely certain that Hottie McDimples is watching, I bend to grab the pad.

Except I’m me, so instead of it being this graceful bend-and- swoop thing like Elle Woods, I whack my head on the edge of the booth’s Formica table.

“Ow,” I whine, dropping my pen and reaching up to touch my throbbing forehead. That’s definitely going to leave a mark. And if, by some miracle, my head isn’t sporting a massive bruise, the sheer mortification of this encounter will be certain to haunt me for a thousand lifetimes.

“Willa Dean, you okay?” Chief Mac’s voice is full of concern.

Groaning as I grab the notepad, I slowly bring myself back to standing. “It’s just Willa, Chief, and yes, I’m…fine.” I try to throw him a smile, but it’s probably more like a grimace based on the way his eyes widen and his head jerks back a bit.

Hottie McHotPants slides out of the booth, and whoa. He’s tall. Not overwhelmingly so, but still. Tall. And broad. Oh God, that’s a lot of chest. Breathe. And now he’s bringing his hand up to inspect me for injuries, and sweet baby Jesus, could he just…not?

I reel away from his raised fingers and repeat, “I’m fine,” while gesturing for him to sit back down.

He does no such thing. In fact, the man steps right into my personal space. “You really did a number on yourself,” he murmurs softly. He smells like laundry detergent and some kind of cedary spice, and even his breath is minty.

Then I look up to meet his eyes, and I swear on a stack of blueberry pancakes, my knees literally weaken. They’re a gorgeous deep green, framed by thick black lashes, and they’re laser-focused on me, and for the love of all that is holy, I really, really need him to stop.

“Coffee? Tea? Water?” I blurt the words without thinking.

He smiles again, and the bit of scruff on his face isn’t enough to hide dimples so deep I could swim in them. Good lord, this isn’t fair. It’s impossible to focus with the way his eyes are…eyeing. Is that a thing? It should be. He’s a walking crime. Come to think of it, Chief Mac should arrest him .

“Coffee, please,” he says, sliding back into the booth and handing me my dropped pen.

In through the nose, out through the mouth. In, out. In, out. I take the pen and scribble the order down with shaky fingers, along with a note to get Chief the same.

I breathe my way back to the coffee pots, and hallelujah, I don’t pour the coffee all over myself as I get their orders. When I return, I’m no less dazzled by the man, and it’s beginning to be a problem.

“Guess I should make the introductions,” Chief says, nodding at Hottie. “This is my nephew, Reid MacKinnon. Reid’s gonna fill in for Jessica while she’s on leave with the new baby. Came all the way from Miami.” Chief’s chest puffs with obvious pride while I keep a smile pasted on my face, trying desperately to reconcile the fact that I’ll be forced to look at this man on the regular for the next three months.

Look , and of course not touch, because a man like him—sophisticated, flawless, and clearly put-together even in a freaking T-shirt and jeans—would never go for a woman like me. I may love being a diner cook, but it’s not the classiest of jobs. Come to think of it, most men don’t go for me, period. It’s the one drawback of growing up in a small town: I know way too much about the guys around here, and I don’t even show up on their radar.

It’s all for the best. I smell like fried food most of the time, anyway.

“Reid, this is Willa Dean Dash.”

Seriously with the Willa Dean. I increase the wattage on my smile, and it makes my head throb where I hit it. “Just Willa, Chief.” The only people still allowed to call me Willa Dean are my parents, and even that’s dubious on the best days. Which today is not. Not even remotely. Today is a day I’d like to rewind and stay in bed with the covers thrown up over my head.

Maybe permanently .

Reid flashes another blinding smile. “Nice to meet you, Just Willa.”

Oh, and he’s got jokes. Great. “Any food?” I croak.

Chief orders his usual, and then it’s Dimples McGee’s turn. He consults the menu far too long before finally shutting it with a snap. “Two eggs, over medium, wheat toast, dry, and bacon, extra crispy.”

I manage to write it all down before whirling on my heel to flee. Mom catches my eye as I pass her.

“He’s cute,” she singsongs.

Yes, he’s cute. He’s also so far out of my league, it’s not even funny. My sister, on the other hand? “Goldie’s type, for sure.”