Chapter 7
Lily
As I reach to serve the plate, a jolt of searing pain shoots through my hand—the damn thing’s scorching. I bite down on a curse but manage to hold on somehow.
“Order up!” Mitch yells from the back. That’s the one thing about him being owner and a cook—I have to hear his voice yelling constantly.
I shake out my singed fingers and yank up my uniform’s apron, more for show than functionality, but it does the trick, and I grab the plate, walking to deliver it to the middle-aged woman at the diner’s farthest booth. Figures.
After I’ve taken two more orders, I return to the kitchen to scoop some ice in a bowl and dunk my hand in. The cold stings just as sharp as the burn, but I grit my teeth and let the relief sink in. I hope it doesn’t blister.
“Lily! New customers at table twelve!” Mitch rounds the corner where the extra drink machine is in the kitchen, and he eyeballs my almost numb hand.
His brows raise, and I don’t miss the slight roll of his eyes as his lips press into a thin line of exasperation.
He sighs, shaking his head with a look that clearly says Seriously?
mixed with his irritation and absurd amusement.
Mitch is what I’d picture a diner owner to look like.
He’s stout with a broad build and a belly that fills out his grease-stained apron.
The short black hair on his head, or at least what’s left of it, is slicked back, the few pieces combed over the bald patch on top of his head sticking up with the sweat from the heat of the kitchen.
For a middle-aged man, he’s got a booming voice that cuts through the diner chatter and the sizzle of the high-powered grill.
He’s a no-nonsense kind of guy, but he takes care of his employees, and I like that about him.
Granted, he works too much and rarely sees his wife and kids, but the man runs this diner with practiced efficiency, and I’d expect nothing less.
It was his father’s, and Mitch grew up helping his dad run the place.
His thick arms cross in front of his chest.
“On it,” I say, offering him a salute with my non-injured hand. That earns me another eye roll.
I wipe my hand off and clean up my mess, dumping the ice in the sink.
Then I duck into the kitchen to snag a fry from the fresh batch as soon as Mitch turns his back.
It’s hot and salty, and a stark reminder I didn’t eat breakfast this morning.
I pat the tender skin on my forehead where my stitches used to be, savoring the strange relief of it.
Took two weeks and an annoying amount of medical gauze, but they’re finally gone.
The boisterous lunch crowd continues to filter in, and I move through the swinging door from the kitchen into the main dining area.
The counter seating is jammed full. Burgers, wraps, gourmet grilled cheese, coupled with three different kinds of soup of the day, litter the plates in front of the customers.
Accidentally, I bump into Hannah, who’s balancing a tray one-handed while grabbing the latest receipt. She’s in our classic diner uniform dress, her black hair pinned up into a messy bun. With a quick smile, she darts past me, the sound of her heels clicking on the tiled floor.
I look down at my clunky combat boots blacker than burned toast. They clash with the uniform, but I’m not a heels person, and I recently lost my flats.
Pretty sure I ended up throwing them in the trash with some garbage.
That tends to be the problem when you live out of your car, everything gets piled together.
Anyway, it was between my hiking boots, which I covet, and these combat boots. I chose the latter. It’s not like they’re my style, but they do scream leave me alone, and as someone who lives out of my car, alone, anything that makes me look tougher earns a place in my life.
I mentally count the muffins and Danishes left under the three glass domes on the counter by checkout.
Customers prefer it when you don’t have to run to check quantities in the middle of taking their order.
Learned that the hard way at one of my first waitressing jobs several years ago.
I ran to check and came back to an empty table and a bad Yelp review.
Grabbing my check pad, I navigate around the counter and pull to a stop when I see who is sitting at table twelve.
What. The. Hell.
Ranger Rob sits by himself in uniform on the side of the booth that faces me. He’s scrolling on his phone, every so often glancing up and giving leaving patrons a nodding smile or checking out the window he’s seated near.
I gnaw at my cheek and tap my pen on my check pad.
I haven’t seen Ranger Sullivan—Noah—since he dropped me off just over two weeks ago.
It shouldn’t matter he’s here in this diner.
I should be able to approach him like any other customer and take his order.
Maybe it’s pride—the fact he’s seen me so vulnerable in the hospital.
Or, possibly, it’s the midday sun cresting just above his hatless head that makes him stand out, annoyingly so, among the rest. Either way, I find my feet glued to the floor.
It isn’t until Mitch barks out a resounding “Lily!” that I kick my ass into gear and peddle over to his table.
He’s scanning the menu, unaware I’ve crept up on him, and I can’t help but stare for a second.
There’s something rugged and calm about him, like seeing him in this diner—he’s out of place.
He should be in the wild, not in this restaurant with clinking silverware and the smell of stale burned coffee left over from the breakfast rush.
My heart hammers, and my fingers grip my notepad a little tighter as I take in his uniform.
It hugs him in all the right places. The fabric stretches across his broad shoulders and firm biceps.
The long sleeves, a rich toffee color, wrap snug around his wrists as the shirt pulls across his chest, the buttons straining over his solid frame.
Even the forest-green pants follow the lines of his meaty thighs.
Beside him, a pressed green coat lies draped over the booth, and I’m grateful he took it off.
Then I mentally slap myself.
The dull yammering of voices in the diner materializes, and I clear my throat way too loud, then chastise myself for it.
He looks up, that steady gaze peering at me before he offers me a smile.
I have half a mind to make a joke but think better of it when I contemplate he may not remember me. The generic smile he offers me doesn’t tell me if he’s recognized me, and for a second, I hope he doesn’t. Maybe he’ll just see me as his waitress, nothing more.
But as his eyes linger on my face a moment too long, then migrate up to where my gash has begun to heal and itch like a mother, I know he remembers.
“What can I get you?” I ask, my voice sounding way too timid. I scribble on the notepad to test the pen. It’s a nervous habit.
“How’s your head?”
Pen at the ready, I blink. That’s definitely not on the menu.
“Looks like your stitches were removed. It doesn’t look so bad.” He grins at me, closing his menu. Then he crosses his arms, which pushes up the name tag on his chest.
“Uh, yeah …”
The salt and pepper shakers rest in the middle of the table, and I stare at them.
“I’ll have a coffee,” he says, his voice dropping an octave into a tone mixed with gravel. “And … whatever else is good here for lunch.”
I don’t mean to, but I snort.
When his eyebrows raise, I force myself to look down and write coffee on my notepad. Even though there’s no need.
“Turkey club is pretty popular,” I say. Hell, he doesn’t seem like a turkey club kind of guy, does he?
He nods. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds great, thanks.”
“Fries?”
“Sure.” He glances out the window, studying the constant flow of traffic. “And a water.”
“Lemon?” I ask as I write a W next to my other chicken scratch.
“Trying to say something?”
I blink.
“You know … about being sour. You know what? Never mind. It was supposed to be a joke.”
I’m not sure what to say, so naturally my mouth opens, and nonsense comes out. “Oh, okay. I’m laughing on the inside.”
He leans against the leather seat and lets his lips curve into a half smile as a chuckle rolls out, low and easy. “Careful, it just may burst out of ya one of these days.”
“Uh-huh,” I deadpan. “I’ll go put this in right away.”
As I turn away, I can feel his eyes on me, and for a second, there’s something in me that wants to laugh that awkward conversation away.
I weave my way to the kitchen, slowly tearing the order slip.
My heart races, a strange mix of nerves and exasperation, and I slap the ticket down on the counter for our cook, who drags it over to his side.
My efforts to stay out of the dining area ultimately fail when Mitch gives me the stink eye for hovering in the kitchen, and I drag my feet to refill beverages and take more orders.
I avoid Noah but can’t help checking every so often to see what he’s doing while he waits for his food.
He rotates between staring out the window, switching the napkin holder with the salt and pepper shakers, and drumming the pads of his fingers on the table to a beat.
It must be stuck in his head since he repeats the same sequence of taps.
A regular customer, Old Man John, yanks open the door, cane supporting the brunt of his weight, and I rush to help him before he struggles to keep it ajar.
“How are you doing today?” I ask him as I lazily lean against the glass door to keep it wide enough for him to wobble in.
“Just fine, young lady. I’ve got a hankering for a roast beef sandwich.” He offers me his arm, and I grin before accepting and threading my arm under his.
I don’t know many people in town. In fact, I do my best not to get to know people. Frankly, I’d rather watch grass grow. Old Man John is the only person in this town I will miss when I leave.