28. Sneak Peak
Sneak Peak
Thanks for reading Our Forever Fields!
Check out another book by Norie Townsend:
Stuck With The Grumpy Rancher: An Age-Gap Enemies to Lovers Romance
Chapter One: Ellie
The plate tries to kill me at exactly twelve-fifteen.
Not metaphorically. Literally.
One second, I’m pivoting out of booth six with a sweating glass of sweet tea balanced on my tray and Doris Weller shouting across the room that she asked for wheat, not white ...
the next, my left sneaker skids on a smear of ketchup near the soda station.
The tray tilts. Ice water sloshes over my wrist. A burger plate slides, spins, and makes a suicidal dive for the checkered tile.
I catch it against my hip hard enough to bruise.
“Jesus,” Addie mutters behind me, flying past with a coffee pot in one hand and a grin in her voice. “You got nine lives, honey, but you keep spending them real reckless.”
“Only on weekdays.” I shove the plate level again, smile pasted on so tight it could crack a molar and keep moving.
Red Falls Diner at lunch rush sounds like a kitchen fire married a county fair. Silverware clinks. The fryers hiss. Somebody’s kid is crying because his grilled cheese got cut into triangles instead of rectangles, which, apparently, is a war crime.
I have five tables, two counter stools, and exactly eleven dollars and thirty-two cents in my checking account until tonight’s tips hit.
So no, I do not have time for gravity.
“Ellie!” Rita slaps the pass-through ledge with a spatula. “If table four asks where their toast is one more time, I’m gonna march out there and staple it to his forehead.”
“I support women’s rights and women’s wrongs,” I call back, sliding the rescued burger in front of a man in a John Deere cap. “But maybe let me try diplomacy first.”
John Deere Cap snorts into his sweet tea. Booth two laughs. Rita tells me to kiss her ass, which in Rita-speak is basically affection.
I spin toward table four just as the man there lifts two fingers at me like he’s summoning valet parking.
He’s mid-fifties, pink in the face, expensive watch, sunglasses still on indoors. Tourist, probably. Or worse … one of the men who moved out here for “quiet mountain living” and immediately started acting like the town came with staff.
“Ma’am,” he says, drawing the word out in a way that makes it feel like an insult. “I’ve been waiting ten minutes for toast.”
“You’ve been waiting four,” I say pleasantly.
His mouth tightens. “Excuse me?”
I set down the side of bacon for the woman across from him and give him my brightest customer-service smile.
“Your toast will be right out,” I say. “Thanks for being patient.”
The woman gives me an apologetic look over the rim of her coffee cup.
He does not soften.
“I haven’t been patient.”
“No,” I say pleasantly. “I noticed.”
His jaw tightens. “Maybe I should speak to your manager.”
From the register, Gina’s head pops up like a prairie dog scenting blood. She hates conflict unless it involves her being right.
I get there first.
“Absolutely.” I lean in just enough to make my voice intimate instead of sharp. “And when you do, mention that your server is the only thing standing between you and Rita bringing that toast out personally. She’s armed with butter and no respect for authority.”
The woman barks out a real laugh, then tries to swallow it. Even the man’s mouth twitches, though I can tell he resents me for making him human in public.
I straighten just as Rita shoves a plate through the pass-through. Two pieces of sourdough, dark gold and still steaming.
“See?” I set it down in front of him with a flourish. “Hot, crisp, and only mildly delayed. Like my retirement plan.”
That gets me another snort from booth two and a helpless smile from his companion. Pink Face finally grunts and reaches for the jam.
Victory.
Tiny, greasy, diner-scented victory, but I’ll take it.
I turn away, tucking my tray under my arm, pulse still kicking from the near wipeout and the little spike of adrenaline that always follows conflict.
I catch my reflection for half a second in the chrome napkin dispenser at the counter …
blonde ponytail slipping crooked, cheeks flushed, mascara still holding the line by sheer force of will.
Cute enough from a distance, probably. Up close, I look like a woman one bounced check away from setting something expensive on fire.
But I’m upright. The plates are intact. No one has died over toast.
At Red Falls Diner, that counts as grace.
Grace lasts maybe seven seconds.
The bell over the front door gives its usual tired jangle, and half the room changes shape.
Nobody gasps. Nobody drops a fork. But Gina lifts her head from the register with a brightness she does not waste on regular people. Earl Hobbs at the counter touches two fingers to the brim of his cap. Even Rita, still muttering over the flat-top, goes a shade quieter behind the pass-through.
I know that shift before I look.
My stomach drops anyway.
Trey Calder stands just inside the door with cold wind at his back, one broad hand still near the frame, like the place had the bad sense to pause and wait for him.
He is in dark jeans, clean boots, a pressed chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled once at the forearms, and his hat low enough to cast a shadow over his eyes.
Ranch money with a quiet authority that walks into a room before the man does.
And because the universe has a sick sense of humor, my body notices him before my brain starts screaming.
Heat first. Then awareness. Then anger, sharp and humiliating and late.
I hate that order.
He scans the diner once, taking stock of the set up, and lands on me with the kind of stillness that used to make half the ranch hands straighten without thinking. My fingers tighten around the edge of my tray.
“Ellie,” Gina hisses, smoothing the front of her apron as if she works somewhere with tablecloths. “Take booth seven.”
Of course, she says it like she’s granting me a privilege.
“I have three other tables up.”
“And he asked for your section.”
That jerks my gaze back to Trey.
He has not moved yet. Not much. Just enough to make it clear he heard her and didn’t feel the need to apologize for any of it.
Something old and ugly drags its nails down my spine.
The barn office comes back sharp and sudden, with its pungent smells of leather and dust. Halter lead rope cutting into my palm because I’m holding it too tight.
My voice, going thin with humiliation while I stand in front of his desk and ask for one more week. Just one. I can get the money. Please.
His answer, calm as weather.
Rules are rules.
My chest goes tight.
And right behind that memory, because apparently my own brain enjoys betrayal, comes another one.
Monte’s stall at dusk, his lip-wiggling through Trey’s shirt pocket after a carrot.
Trey leaning against the half-door, hat pushed back, laughing under his breath when Monte' nearly got the whole pocket seam.
Sleeves rolled. Forearms tanned. Mouth changing completely when he forgot to keep it stern.
I had hated him a little for that laugh, and how it made him look less like a locked gate and more like a man.
“Ellie.” Addie bumps my elbow on her way past with a coffeepot. “Either go take cowboy his menu or keep staring like you’re planning a felony. Both valid. One better for tips.”
I blink back into the diner, back into the smell of bacon grease and the clatter of lunch plates.
Into Trey finally crossing the room with that unhurried stride of his, as if he’s never once in his life had to rush for anything.
Booth seven is mine. Of course it is.
I square my shoulders, tuck the tray under my arm, and tell my pulse to quit acting like this means something.
By the time I reach his table, my smile is back in place.
“What can I get you?” I say, pen poised over my pad.
He looks up at me for a beat too long before he answers.
“Coffee,” he says.
His voice is exactly the same, which shouldn’t annoy me as much as it does.
After everything, after the barn office and Monte’ and the two years I spent teaching myself not to think about Pine Ridge every time I drove past the turnoff. He still sounds like gravel and restraint. Like the kind of man who has never once in his life had to raise his voice to be obeyed.
“Regular or decaf?” I ask.
One dark eyebrow shifts. “Do I look like I drink decaf?”
“There are a lot of brave new worlds out there,” I say, scribbling nothing on my pad. “I try not to judge.”
That almost does it.
No smile, but I can almost see one brewing under the surface.
“Regular.”
“Living dangerously. Good for you.”
His gaze drops to my pad, then comes back to my face. “You nearly went down back there.”
I stiffen. “You're so observant.” I flip my pad shut a little harder than necessary and continue, “Anything to eat today?”
“Whatever comes with the least chance of you poisoning me.”
I let out a short breath through my nose. “Then water? Maybe crackers, if you’re lucky.”
This time I do catch it … the faintest pull at his mouth, gone almost before it appears. It bothers me more than a full smile would have. Like I’ve accidentally stepped into some familiar rhythm my pride would have preferred to forget.
“I’ll take the chicken-fried steak,” he says. “Mashed potatoes and green beans.”
“Bold choice before one in the afternoon.”
“I’ve had a long morning.”
Something about that … too flat, too controlled … makes me glance at him properly.
There are shadows under his eyes, just visible enough to suggest poor sleep and a day that started before sunrise. His shirt is clean and pressed. His hat sits low, brim shadowing the line of his gaze, but not enough to hide that he is watching me far too closely for a man ordering lunch.
The way his eyes move makes my skin go tight, like he’s noticing too much … the flush still sitting in my cheeks from the rush, the way I’ve shifted my weight to one foot because my left sneaker is still wet from the sloshed tea.
And because I am apparently committed to making this worse, I notice things too.