Chapter 1
Adam
T he bell chimes over the door of Sal’s Diner as I pull it open, immediately welcomed by the scent of frying bacon and coffee. The place is packed, and I let out a grumble as I squeeze through the horde of patrons to reach the hostess stand.
The young woman behind the booth greets me with wide eyes and a flirtatious smile.
“Mr. Goode,” she chimes happily as she picks up a menu.
“Good morning, Veronica,” I reply with a grin.
She blushes as her gaze lingers on my face for a moment too long, clearly chuffed by the fact that I remembered her name. Then, she spins toward the bar, and her expression falls when she notices that every single stool is occupied, including the one on the corner that I always take.
“I’m…sorry,” she stammers, but I hold up a hand to stop her.
“It’s okay, Veronica. I can wait.”
“I’m really sorry,” she repeats, looking apologetic, but I shake my head at her as I quietly ease into the corner of the crowded waiting area, pulling out my phone in hopes that it will hide my face enough to not be noticed here.
Apparently, Sal’s has picked up in popularity over the last few months.
It doesn’t help that Austin is filled to the brim with trendy brunch spots—it would appear that greasy spoon diners are back in because every hipster tourist or college kid within a thirty-mile radius has started packing in the tiny restaurant each weekend.
My regular Saturday morning diner.
The only saving grace is that most hipster tourists and college kids don’t know who I am. Unless their parents tuned into my father’s Sunday morning program, they don’t know Adam Goode from Adam Levine.
And my Saturday morning breakfast is the only time I like it that way.
Any other day or time, I’d be happy to smile for selfies or sign their King James Versions, but this is my time. This is when I get my writing done, where I can really focus and create my best sermons. I usually watch recordings of old sermons on my phone before digging into writing my own.
I have my own office at the church, but I prefer working elsewhere. When I’m here, surrounded by the white noise chatter of the breakfast patrons, I feel as if I can really tap into something deeper.
Someday I might not have this option. I’ll be too busy running the church instead of just writing sermons for it.
Eventually, it will be me at that pulpit on Sunday mornings. But for now, it’s still him.
So, until then…waffles and coffee.
“Just one?” a warm voice chirps from the hostess stand, and I glance up from my phone to see a mess of pink waves on a petite frame standing near the front. “It’ll be about thirty to forty-five minutes.”
The woman’s shoulders sag as the look of defeat washes over her entire stance. “Seriously? I just got off the late shift and I’m famished. Can I put in an order to go?”
The girl grimaces. “It’ll probably take that long to fill the order, to be honest.”
“Fuck my life,” the woman groans.
My eyes subtly rake over her body, from her brightly colored hair down to her black boots.
She’s not wearing much, exposing her belly, back, and limbs all covered in ink.
Various tattoos are stamped across her body like someone was bored in class and spent their time doodling on her sun-kissed skin.
The black crop top she’s in stops somewhere along the middle of her back, and those blue jean cutoffs leave a gap in the high waistline like she bought a size too big.
Wincing, I curse myself for staring at the woman’s ass like some perverted gawker. Biting my bottom lip, I turn my attention back to my phone. I’m watching the broadcast from last year, a sermon about morality playing in the AirPod stuffed in my left ear.
A blur of pink enters my periphery as the tattooed girl takes a seat on the bench next to me. I glance her way, shooting her a polite smile before staring back at my phone.
The girl lets out a sigh, followed by a soft moan as she rubs her forehead. I catch sight of her bloodred nail polish and the tiny tattooed symbols on each of her delicate, long fingers.
“Mr. Goode,” the hostess calls sweetly from the stand. My eyes widen as I glance around to see who might have heard her call me by my last name, but the only ones who pause are an elderly couple sitting on the opposite bench.
I smile at them before moving to the front.
“Your seat is ready,” the hostess says, clutching the menu to her chest. But as she steps toward the empty seat, waiting for me to follow her, my feet don’t move. There’s a right and a wrong in this scenario, and even as my stomach growls with hunger, I know what I have to do.
With an internal grimace, I turn back toward the pink-haired girl on the bench. Her eyes are closed as her head rests against her fist, but I step back toward her, tapping her gently on the arm to wake her.
As her eyes pop open, she stares at me in shock.
“Take my seat,” I say with a huff.
“What?”
“A seat at the bar just came open. Take it.”
“Seriously?” she asks, scrutinizing me like this is some sort of scam.
“Yes, seriously.” I step back and hold out a hand, showing her the waiting hostess, whose smile has turned tense.
The pink-haired girl stands up hesitantly before moving toward the empty stool. “Thank you,” she calls back, her eyes meeting mine for a brief second before she sits down and turns her attention to the menu.
I take my place back in the corner, watching my phone as crowds of people come and go in front of me.
When the sermon comes to an end, the app immediately loads the next video.
Our services are nationally televised and recorded, available to the whole country on nearly any streaming platform they prefer—satellite radio, TV broadcast, or online.
For all I know, people in this very restaurant are tuning in to their own personal AirPod sermons.
The theme of this week is virtue, and I need inspiration from sermons in the past because, at the moment, nothing clever is coming to me.
But some of these old speeches of his were written by his staff, and they lack appeal.
They’re dull. That’s why my father passed the sermon writing baton over to me.
He says I phrase it all differently and in a way everyone can understand.
He’s a bit old-fashioned, so he grew up on flowery prose and, frankly, boring-as-hell metaphors.
But he wants to relate Leviticus to the Dallas Cowboys’ last big trade, and that’s what I’m here for.
“Mr. Goode,” a sweet voice calls, and I look up to find the hostess grinning at me. “Another seat at the bar is open.”
I smile at her, my stomach growling with the promise of hash browns and bacon, thankful that my wait wasn’t too much longer. Quickly following behind, my grin turns to a frown when I realize the empty barstool is just to the left of Miss Pink Hair herself.
Taking the seat next to her, I glance her way just as she looks up at me. There’s a nearly empty plate in front of her and a half-filled cup of coffee. There’s also more color to her cheeks now and a much livelier expression.
“Oh my god, it’s you,” she proclaims as I take my seat. With a cordial grin on my face, I nod to her. I’m a little surprised she recognized me, if I’m being honest. She doesn’t seem like the kind to—
“You’re the one who gave me your seat. You are literally a fucking lifesaver. I was so hungry, I thought I was going to die.”
I look downward, momentarily humbled as I realize she recognizes me as the Good Samaritan who gave up his seat…and not the son of Austin’s most prominent pastor.
“You’re feeling better, then?” I ask, without looking at her. My eyes are still glued to my phone while I silently pray that she’s not the kind of person to indulge in too much small talk just because I was polite.
“Much. The biscuits and gravy here are good enough to bring someone back from the dead.”
“I agree. It was my pleasure. I’m glad you had a good breakfast.”
As I glance toward her, getting a good look at her up close, I notice she has her left nostril pierced, not once, but twice. And a gold hoop hanging from the middle of her nose as well. Then there’s another on the right side of her bottom lip. It’s a pity, really. She has a very nice nose.
And very nice lips. And very nice piercing blue eyes.
Honestly, it’s a perfect face overall—even with that tiny star tattoo hovering just over her cheekbone.
It’s wrong of me to be so judgmental, but if the girl wasn’t so covered by ink and metal, I might have noticed sooner just how beautiful she is.
The waitress comes by and takes my order of coffee and the waffle breakfast with a side of hash browns. Then I turn my attention back to my phone and try to focus on the sermon, looking for inspiration, but I keep getting distracted.
At first, I blame it on the lively conversation happening between the couple to my left, but in reality, it’s her every movement next to me on my right. There’s something about those nimble fingers and pierced face and exposed midsection that makes it nearly impossible to focus.
So I give up and place my phone on the counter, pulling the AirPod from my ear.
Instead, I focus on pouring four half-and-half packets into my coffee.
Then I let my eyes wander over to the red nails drumming on the counter as she finishes her breakfast. When she picks up the ketchup bottle from the metal stand on the counter, I watch in horror as she douses her scrambled eggs with it.
I let out a stifled laugh.
Her pink hair flips as she turns toward me. “Are you laughing at my breakfast?” There’s a hint of playfulness in her tone, such that it makes me feel comfortable with a little light teasing.
“I wouldn’t have given my seat to you if I knew you were going to desecrate those eggs.”
She laughs around a mouthful, covering her pretty pink lips with her fingers as she aims her humor-filled eyes at me. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” she mumbles, chasing down her bite with a sip of coffee.
“I'm fine, thanks.”