2. CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER TWO
TRAVIS
As I scrape leftover food off a plate and into the trash, with the hum of diner patrons surrounding me, I take a moment to commiserate over the state of my life.
Growing up, all I wanted to do was get out of this small, crazy-ass town.
And that’s what I did.
I went to college in Boston, found a job after I graduated, and got an apartment.
Yet somehow, I still ended up back here, serving what feels like endless turkey clubs and stacks of pancakes and cleaning up after all these fools.
But I made this choice.
Reed’s Diner is a staple in town.
My grandfather opened it and ran it until the day he died.
And when I got that horrible phone call, I knew what I needed to do.
My dad wasn’t going to step up and run this place, since he has his own career.
Not to mention, his culinary skills begin and end with spaghetti and a jar of Ragu.
A sense of family obligation is what brought me home.
But honestly, my job managing a group of customer service reps for an online retail giant was boring as hell.
I don’t love having to deal with the public now, because customers can be majorly annoying sometimes, but I actually do enjoy cooking.
Most of my happiest memories took place in this diner with my grandfather teaching me how to do it.
I was always closer with him than I was with my dad, and it would have killed me to let the diner go.
So here I am.
I don’t really hate my life.
But I gave up things to come back here—mainly the freedom to be fully myself—and some days that weighs on me.
The bell on the door jingles, making me sigh.
Today is just one of those days.
Getting into an argument with my produce supplier earlier over not bringing me enough heads of lettuce is probably what kickstarted my bad mood.
I didn’t realize until after I hung up on him that I’m the one who messed up placing the order.
Then I felt like an ass, but I’m lousy at apologizing.
I’ve known Connor Shaw since we were kids though, so I’ll have to suck it up.
Take him out for a beer or something.
When I come out from the back, I spot May Sanderson, with her unmistakable purple hair and giant backpack over her shoulders, grabbing a table.
At least she has the common sense and decency to choose a clean one, which is more than I can say for some of the adults around here.
Seeing her lifts my mood.
She’s a cool kid—not something I say often.
But mostly, the change in mood is because I assume her dad will be joining her.
Brenden moved to town with May the same year I moved back, but it took a while before I got to know him.
I was busy figuring out how to run the diner, and he was busy getting his life set up here while taking care of a two-year-old all by himself.
He can’t cook to save his life though.
So since the diner’s prices are fairly cheap, we found ourselves interacting day after day, and over time, we became close.
We’re not making each other BFF bracelets or anything.
But my tendency to keep to myself was no match for his persistent friendliness, and he eventually wore me down.
He probably knows me a hell of a lot better than most people by now.
And okay, fine.
I’ll never admit it to him because he would taunt me endlessly, but he’s pretty much the bright spot in my days.
Even when he’s on my case about me refusing to participate in some town nonsense.
Or when he calls me Grumptopus.
Or when he begs me to serve him more coffee than it should be legal to consume.
I always enjoy his company.
May smiles when I approach her table.
I swear she has her dad’s smile, even though they’re not biologically related.
I ask if she needs two menus, despite the fact that she and Brenden likely know the menu better than I do.
“Yeah, Dad will be here in a minute,” she says.
I turn to grab them for her, not letting her see how happy I am with that answer.
“Orange soda?” I call out from behind the counter.
“Yes, please!”
I fill a glass from the fountain, and by the time I return with her soda and the menus, she’s already got her backpack open and two textbooks spread out on the table.
I carefully nudge one over so I can set the glass down.
“Aren’t you supposed to be on vacation?”
“Keeping tabs on my kid?” Brenden asks as he strolls in, bell jingling.
He wraps his fingers loosely around my forearm and urges me to step to the side so he can sit down across from his daughter.
The brief touch makes my skin tingle, but I ignore that.
“I swear I know when she’s supposed to go to school,” he says.
“I’ve got this.”
He’s teasing me, and I glance back down at May’s table spread in case my cheeks turn pink.
“I prefer to know when the schools are out so I can prepare to be invaded by a bunch of brats,” I explain.
“ Hey! ” May complains.
“Not you.”
“Today was the last day,” she tells me.
“But I want to make sure I get my assignments done early so I can enjoy the week off.”
I shake my head because this girl is always doing schoolwork and studying.
She’s way too mature for her age.
I like to give Brenden shit that she’s more mature than him, which he never refutes.
“Coffee,” Brenden says, abruptly cutting off the conversation.
The desperate tinge to his voice makes me roll my eyes, and I refrain from giving him a lecture on manners.
“How many of these have you had today?” I ask when I serve him a cup.
It’s part of our routine, and he usually answers with something vague and absurd like, “More than one and less than ten.”
This time though, he heaves a weary sigh and says, “I’ve lost count, but believe me, I needed all of them. Do you mind if we have some time before we order?”
I try not to be disappointed at the brush off.
He is here as a customer, after all, and not to see me.
But he’s usually much chattier.
He didn’t even ask about my dad, which he’s done every day since the stubborn idiot of a man fell off a ladder while doing his electrician work and fractured his hip.
Grabbing a rag, I begin wiping down the counter in an attempt to keep myself busy and avoid watching Brenden and May like a creeper.
I can’t help taking a few quick peeks at their table, though.
Brenden looks as good as ever, with his fitted dark gray slacks and a peach button-up—one of his typical work outfits.
He looks more tired than usual though.
A piece of his sandy brown hair falls out of place as he ducks his head to talk to May, and he doesn’t bother swiping it back.
I refill a few customers’ drinks and serve a couple meals.
But the rush has already died down, so there isn’t enough going on to keep me occupied, and my gaze keeps drifting back to Brenden.
He and May are having a hushed conversation, with Brenden looking more stressed by the minute.
May keeps patting his hand sympathetically.
Finally, I see him throw his arms over one of her books, thunking his head down on top of them, and I can’t stop myself from going back over there.
“What’s with you?” I ask.
“We’re in crisis mode,” May answers for him.
“We’re not in crisis mode,” Brenden disagrees, his voice muffled because he’s talking to the table.
“You look like you’re in crisis mode,” I comment.
He lifts his head from his arms to give me a dirty look.
“You’re not helping.”
I hold his eye contact, waiting him out.
His blue eyes are missing their usual spark, and I experience a strong desire to do something to give it back to him.
After a few moments, he starts to ramble about computer errors, broken ovens, and missing kitchen staff.
His tone takes on a high-pitched, frantic quality the more he goes on, but I manage to follow along and determine that his most pressing problem, the one that’s left him in this state, is the fact that his kitchen is unexpectedly short-staffed right when they have a large group due to arrive at the inn.
I frown in both concern and minor suspicion.
“Did you come in here to ask me to help you out?”
He tries to glare at me again, but he comes off more like a snarky puppy, failing to make it threatening.
“I came in here to drink coffee and eat a burger.”
“And to ask for my help.”
We have another short staring contest until he groans loudly and says, “Fine. I was considering asking for your help. But you don’t have to! I know you have your own business to run.”
He gestures around us, but the diner’s almost empty by now, not quite illustrating his point.
It gets packed for the typical mealtime hours though.
Being one of only three sit-down restaurants in town will do that.
Shrugging, I tell him, “I can make it work.” Truthfully, I’m not sure how , but I hate seeing him upset.
It’s rare, but it always gets to me.
And my instinct is to help him whenever he needs anything, no matter how small or large the request is.
Our friendship began inside this diner, but it developed while hauling furniture for him in my truck bed, changing flat tires on his car, and blowing up thousands of balloons for May’s birthday parties.
These aren’t services I’d be as quick to offer anyone else in town, but Brenden is.
.
.
special.
“No, you really don’t have to,” he argues.
“I’ll figure something else out. I’ll just have to help in the kitchen myself.”
A sharp laugh punches out of me.
Ignoring the eye daggers he aims my way, I say, “You can’t cook. That’s why you’re always here.”
His jaw drops.
“How very dare you!” he says in mock offense.
“I can so cook. Bagel bites and mozzarella sticks totally count as cooking.”
“Nothing frozen counts.”
“But I always get the cheese to that perfect gooeyness-without-melting-over quality!”
I do my best to look unimpressed, rather than charmed, but I think I fail.
“Seriously, I don’t mind helping. Benji can cover for me. He’s always happy for more hours, and I trust him. I’ll still have to pop back and forth to take care of some stuff, but it’s doable.”
Brenden looks up at me now, immense gratitude painted all over his face, and I know I’m making the right decision offering to help.
Even if it’s going to be a pain in the ass sorting everything out.
There’s not much I wouldn’t do for this man.
Luckily, I don’t think he realizes that.