Chapter Nine
Balancing three plates on one arm, Zack maneuvered through the narrow aisle between booths.
Coffee sloshed dangerously close to the rim of one mug as he sidestepped a toddler who'd escaped from booth seven.
Rain hammered harder against the front windows, turning the world outside into a watercolor blur of gray and darker gray.
“Pancakes, extra syrup,” he announced, sliding the plate in front of an elderly woman who definitely hadn't ordered pancakes.
She blinked up at him through thick glasses. “I asked for the omelet, dear.”
“Right. Yes. Omelet.” Heat crawled up his face as he retrieved the plate. “Be right back with that.”
Behind the counter, Jace caught his eye and mouthed something that looked like “wrong table” while pointing at booth three. Great. Fantastic. Maybe his brain was still tangled up in sheets and the memory of teeth sinking into his shoulder.
Definitely not the time to think about that.
Refocusing, he delivered the pancakes to their actual destination, grabbed the omelet from under the heat lamp, and circled back.
Every surface in the diner gleamed with condensation from the humidity pressing in through the door each time it opened.
Smells layered thick in the air—bacon grease, fresh coffee, maple syrup, wet pavement tracked in on shoes.
Another crack of thunder made the lights flicker again. A woman near the window jumped, nearly knocking over her water glass.
“Storm’s getting worse,” Jace said as he passed him, arms loaded with dirty dishes. “Bet we lose power before noon.”
“Optimistic today, aren’t we?” Zack managed a grin even as he felt the weight of exhaustion pulling at his edges. Between Olympic-level sex and lack of sleep, his body was running on fumes and caffeine.
Orders kept coming. Table six wanted more coffee.
Table two needed ketchup. Booth four had a screaming baby and parents who looked like they’d aged ten years since sitting down.
Rain turned the morning into a soggy marathon, customers lingering longer than usual because nobody wanted to go back out into the downpour.
Somewhere between refilling coffee and clearing plates, a prickle of awareness crept up Zack’s arms. Not painful, just... there. Like static electricity building before a shock.
Pausing mid-step, he glanced around the diner, scanning faces. Most people were focused on their food or their phones. A couple near the back argued quietly. Jace was taking an order at the counter. Nothing seemed out of place.
But the feeling didn’t go away.
Slowly, carefully, he turned his head toward his section. Booths lined the wall, two-seaters scattered near the windows. At the farthest two-seater, tucked into the corner like they were trying to disappear into the vinyl, sat someone watching him.
Not just looking. Watching.
Zack’s stomach did something unpleasant. Eye contact would’ve been normal—people looked at their servers all the time. But this person's gaze felt different, heavier, like they were memorizing him.
Guy around Zack’s age, maybe. Nondescript clothes, dark jacket still wet from the rain. Hands folded on the table, fingers twitching every few seconds. When Zack’s eyes found them, they immediately looked down at the menu, jaw working like they were chewing the inside of their cheek.
Nerves radiated off them in visible ripples—the way their leg bounced under the table, the constant adjustment of their napkin, the death grip on the menu that was probably leaving fingerprints.
Something about it felt wrong. Not dangerous, necessarily, but... off.
Grabbing his notepad, Zack crossed the diner floor, weaving between tables. Rain drummed a steady rhythm overhead, competing with the clatter of dishes and low murmur of conversation. By the time he reached the two-seater, his palms were damp.
“Morning,” he said, keeping his voice light. “What can I get you?”
Still no eye contact. Just a quick, jerky nod and a mumbled, “Coffee. Black.”
“Anything else?”
“No. Just coffee.”
Scribbling the order, Zack tried to get a better look without being obvious about it. Nothing stood out. No visible weapons, no threatening posture. Just someone who looked like they’d rather be anywhere else but couldn’t quite manage to leave.
“Be right back with that.”
Walking away felt like peeling off duct tape. Every instinct screamed to keep an eye on the stranger, but turning around and staring would’ve been too obvious. Instead, he focused on putting one foot in front of the other until he reached the coffee station.
Jace appeared at his elbow, balancing a tray of food. “You okay? Look a bit shaken.”
“Fine.” The word came out too fast. “Just... weird customer.”
“Aren’t they all?” He rolled his eyes and disappeared toward booth seven.
Pouring coffee into a clean mug, Zack’s hands stayed steady even though his brain was sprinting in circles. Maybe he was being paranoid. Maybe the stranger was just shy, or anxious, or having a bad day. People got nervous around servers all the time.
Except this didn’t feel like normal nerves.
Carrying the mug back, he set it down carefully in front of the stranger. “Here you go. Let me know if you need anything else.”
A barely audible “thanks” followed him as he retreated.
From across the diner, Axel’s voice boomed over the noise. “Zack! Order up!”
Grateful for the distraction, he jogged to the kitchen window where three plates waited. Axel stood on the other side, massive arms crossed over his apron, eyebrow raised.
“You forget how to walk in a straight line this morning?”
“Blame the weather,” Zack shot back, grabbing the plates. “Rain makes me dyslexic.”
“That’s not how dyslexia works.”
“Prove it.”
A snort escaped Axel, almost a laugh. “Get those to table eight before they stage a revolt. And next time you bring the wrong order to someone, at least make it interesting. Pancakes are boring.”
“Noted. Next time I’ll throw in a waffle for drama.”
“Smartass.”
“Better than dumbass.”
Axel’s mouth twitched, fighting a smile. “Get back to work.”
Delivering the plates to table eight went smoothly, no mix-ups this time. As he turned back toward the counter, the front door swung open, letting in a gust of wet air and the sound of rain hammering pavement.
And then Colton walked in.
Everything in Zack’s body went still. Not frozen, exactly—more like every cell suddenly remembered it had a purpose and that purpose was paying attention to the man filling the doorway.
Soaked from the rain, dark hair plastered to his forehead, T-shirt clinging to every ridiculous muscle, Colton looked like he’d walked straight out of some fever dream. Water dripped from his jaw as he scanned the diner, gaze sweeping across tables until it landed on Zack.
Brown eyes locked onto him, and the world got smaller.
Heat flooded Zack’s face. Last night came rushing back in vivid detail—teeth on his shoulder, the claiming bite, the way Colton had growled “mine” like it was a fact of nature. His hand drifted unconsciously to his shirt collar, fingers brushing the tender skin.
Colton’s mouth curved into a slow, knowing smile.
Oh, he knew exactly what Zack was thinking about.
Crossing the diner with that easy, predatory grace, Colton headed straight for Zack’s section and slid into a booth near the window. Rain streaked down the glass behind him, turning his silhouette into something out of a romance novel.
Zack’s feet carried him over before his brain caught up. “Hey.”
“Hey, gorgeous.” Colton’s voice was warm, rough around the edges. “Busy morning?”
“You could say that.” Pulling out his notepad felt ridiculous when all he wanted to do was climb into the guy’s lap. “What can I get you?”