Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Beau
I woke up to sunlight stabbing through my eyelids like tiny ice picks and a headache that felt like someone had used my skull for drum practice.
“Fuck,” I groaned, rolling onto my side and immediately regretting it as my stomach lurched.
Tequila. Why did it always have to be tequila?
I fumbled for my phone on the nightstand, squinting at the too-bright screen. 11:47 AM. Jesus. And seven—no, eight—unread messages in my thread with Mason.
My stomach dropped for reasons that had nothing to do with alcohol poisoning.
I scrolled up, reading what drunk-Beau had sent, and wanted to die.
Mason, where’d you go? - 10:52 PM
Are you okay? - 10:55 PM
Did I do something wrong? - 11:08 PM
I’m sorry if I pushed too hard - 11:23 PM
That kiss though - 11:31 PM
Forget I said that - 11:31 PM
I mean, don’t forget it because it was amazing but - 11:32 PM
Okay, I’m going to stop texting now - 11:47 PM
“Oh, my God.” I pressed my face into my pillow and contemplated suffocation as a viable life choice.
No responses from Mason. Not a single one. Just my increasingly desperate messages sitting there like a monument to my complete lack of chill.
The worst part? I remembered all of it. Every second.
The way Mason had looked at me across that bar, surprise and something darker flickering in his eyes.
The shots and the dancing. Oh, and the way his hands had felt on my shoulders, then my hips, then my back, pulling me in closer like he couldn’t help himself.
And that kiss.
Holy shit. Mason Price kissed like he was trying to prove something—like he’d been holding back for so long that when he finally let go, it was explosive. Demanding. Perfect.
And then he’d run.
I rolled onto my back, staring at my ceiling. The same ceiling I’d stared at last night after stumbling home alone, confused and hurt and still tasting him on my lips.
My stomach growled, loud and insistent, reminding me I’d skipped dinner last night in favor of liquid courage and bad decisions.
I needed food. Greasy, hangover-curing food. The kind that would soak up the regret currently sloshing around in my gut.
I dragged myself out of bed and shuffled to the kitchen, already knowing what I’d find: a refrigerator containing three beers, half a container of leftover pad thai, and condiments. Lots of condiments.
But my spice rack—my beautifully organized, categorized by cuisine spice rack—mocked me from the counter.
“Thanks for that, Mason,” I muttered, grabbing a beer and putting it back. Hair of the Dog was not the answer.
I needed to get out of this apartment.
Twenty minutes later, I’d managed a shower, teeth-brushing, and clean clothes—jeans and a soft grey sweater that didn’t require any real thought. I looked like hell, but it was Sunday morning after a Saturday night disaster, so at least I fit the aesthetic.
I grabbed my phone, wallet, and keys, and headed out into the chilly November morning.
* * *
River City Diner was exactly what I needed: close, unpretentious, and the kind of place that had been serving breakfast to hungover Richmond residents since before I was born.
The bell above the door chimed as I walked in, and the smell of coffee and bacon hit me like a warm hug. My stomach growled in appreciation.
The place was nearly empty—just an elderly couple in one corner booth and a guy in painter’s overalls at the counter. I slid into a booth by the window, grateful for the relative quiet.
“Morning, sunshine!” A woman appeared at my table with a coffeepot and a smile that was way too bright for—I checked my phone—12:17 PM.
She was probably in her fifties, with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and laugh lines around her eyes that suggested she smiled a lot. Her name tag read “Cheri.”
“Coffee?” she asked, already filling my cup.
“Please. And maybe an IV of it directly into my veins.”
She laughed, a warm, genuine sound. “Rough night?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Honey, I’ve been working Sunday morning shifts for twenty-three years. I can spot a hangover at fifty paces.” She set the coffeepot down and pulled out her order pad. “What can I get you?”
“The greasiest thing on the menu.”
“That’s not really narrowing it down.” But she was grinning. “How about the River City Special? Two eggs any style, bacon, sausage, hash browns, and toast. It’s basically a hangover cure on a plate.”
“Perfect. Over easy on the eggs.”
“You got it, sweetheart.” She tucked her pad away but didn’t leave immediately. “First time here?”
“No, I’ve been a few times. I just moved into the neighborhood though, so you’ll probably see more of me.”
“Well, welcome back.” She patted the table as if it were an old friend. “I’ll get that order in for you. You just sit tight and work on that coffee.”
I watched her walk away, her energy almost jarring against my sluggish misery. How did people wake up so cheerful on a Sunday?
I pulled out my phone, checking my messages for probably the twentieth time that morning.
Nothing.
I typed out a message—Hey, about last night—and immediately deleted it.
What was I supposed to say? Sorry you panicked after the best kiss of my life? Or maybe it’s cool that you ran away. I’m totally not replaying it over and over wondering what I did wrong?
I set my phone face-down on the table and took a long sip of coffee. It was strong and hot and exactly what I needed.
Cheri returned a few minutes later with a fresh pot. “Warm you up?”
“Thanks.” I watched her top off my cup. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure, honey.”
“How do you do it? The whole...” I gestured vaguely at her general demeanor. “Cheerful thing. On a Sunday morning. Dealing with people like me, who can barely string a sentence together.”
She laughed again, setting the pot down and leaning against the booth across from me. “You want the secret?”
“Please.”
“I count my blessings. Every single day.” She said it simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“I wake up, and before I even get out of bed, I think of three things I’m grateful for.
Sometimes they’re big things—my kids, my health.
Sometimes they’re small—a good cup of coffee, sunshine through my window.
But I do it every day, and you know what? It changes everything.”
I stared at her, this woman I’d known for all of ten minutes, dropping wisdom on me like she was some kind of breakfast-serving Buddha.
“That actually works?”
“Try it and see.” She winked. “Your food’ll be up in a few minutes.”
She headed back to the kitchen, leaving me alone with my coffee and my thoughts.
Count my blessings.
I pulled out my phone again, but instead of checking for messages from Mason, I opened my notes app and started typing.
Things I’m grateful for:
My job. Even with all the stress and the long hours, I loved what I did. I was good at it. And working on the MediCorp case—despite the complication currently ignoring my texts—was an opportunity most lawyers would kill for.
My new condo. My own space away from my parents’ icy house. And it was only four blocks from here, from bars I liked, from a city I was starting to really love again.
My health. Hangovers aside, I was young, healthy, employed. I could walk to breakfast on a Sunday morning. That was something.
I kept typing, the list growing: my friends back in San Francisco who still texted me memes at random hours. Gracie. My crazy parents. The fact that I’d had the courage to leave a life that wasn’t working and build a new one here.
The fact that I’d kissed Mason Price last night, and for a few perfect moments, he’d kissed me back like I was the only person in the world.
I stopped typing at that one, my chest tight.
“Here you go, sweetheart.” Cheri appeared with a plate so loaded with food I wasn’t sure how she was carrying it one-handed. “One hangover special.”
“This is amazing. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She set down a bottle of hot sauce. “You need anything else?”
“Just this. And maybe your secret to happiness.”
“I already gave it to you.” She tapped the table. “Count those blessings, honey. Life’s too short to focus on what’s going wrong when there’s so much going right.”
She left me with that thought and a plate of perfectly greasy breakfast food.
I ate slowly, savoring each bite, and tried not to check my phone every thirty seconds.
Cheri stopped by twice more—once to refill my coffee and once to bring me extra toast “because you look like you need it.” Each time, she chatted easily, telling me about her daughter’s new job, about the regular customer who proposed to his boyfriend in this very booth last month, about how the diner had been her family’s business for forty years.
“We’ve seen a lot of heartbreak in these booths,” she said, gesturing around the nearly empty diner. “And a lot of healing. Food and coffee help, but mostly it’s just time and perspective.”
I thought about Mason, about the panic in his eyes right before he’d pulled away. About the way he’d said, we can’t do this, like it was killing him.
“What if the thing you want is the thing that’s worst for you?” I asked.
Cheri studied me for a moment, her expression softening. “Is it really worst for you? Or are you just scared it might be?”
I didn’t have an answer to that.
By the time I finished eating, the diner had filled up a bit—post-church crowd, families with kids, couples reading the Sunday paper. Normal people living normal lives, untangled from workplace complications and midnight panic attacks.
I paid my bill, left Cheri a generous tip, and headed back out into the cold.
My phone stayed silent the entire walk home.
Back in my apartment, I stood in my kitchen, looking at that perfectly organized spice rack, and let myself think about it. Really think about it.
Mason was right.
We worked together. We were on the same case—a massive, career-defining case. Getting involved, letting whatever this thing was between us actually become something — that was risky. It could blow up the case, our working relationship, and possibly our careers.
And Mason was already so tightly wound, so controlled, so determined to do everything perfectly. Adding a relationship—especially one that started with drunken kisses in gay bars—that was just asking for disaster.
I pulled out my phone and typed a message: You were right. Last night was a mistake. Let’s just focus on the case.
My finger hovered over send.
I thought about Cheri, about counting blessings. About the fact that I’d moved across the country to live authentically, and to build a life that felt real instead of performative.
I thought about how Mason had kissed me—like he’d been waiting his whole life to let go, just for a moment.
I deleted the message.
But I didn’t type a new one.
Instead, I tossed my phone on the couch and stood there, caught between wanting to respect Mason’s panic and wanting to fight for something that had felt, for those few perfect minutes, absolutely right.
“Damn it,” I whispered to my empty apartment.
Mason was probably right. We should just focus on the case, keep things professional, and pretend last night never happened.
But God, I wished things were different.
I wished we didn’t work together, or that the universe had better timing.
I wished I could stop replaying that kiss, stop feeling the ghost of his hands on my back, stop hearing the way he’d breathed my name like it meant something.
My phone buzzed.
I lunged for it, heart pounding.
It was my mom asking if I’d remembered to send my cousin a birthday card.
I dropped the phone back onto the couch and headed to my bedroom.
Maybe we’d talk about it, and figure out how to move forward. Or maybe Mason would just pretend it never happened, and I’d have to figure out how to work side-by-side with him, despite the memory of his kiss.
I climbed back into bed, even though it was barely two in the afternoon, and pulled the covers over my head.
Tomorrow. I’d figure it out tomorrow. But today?
Today I was allowed to feel like shit about the fact that I’d finally found someone who made me feel something real, and he’d literally run away from me.
Count your blessings, Cheri had said.
I was trying. But right now, all I could count was the number of hours until I had to face Mason again.