Chapter 3
Aubrey
If anyone would have told me a few weeks ago that I’d be mentally undressing some hot biker in my family’s diner every damn morning, I’d call them delusional.
That’s not how things work in Crystal Falls.
We get our excitement from lost cows, carnivals, and the annual Christmas parade, not from brooding men with haunted eyes, and hands that look like they know trouble.
But here I am, watching the clock again, smoothing my hair in the reflection of the napkin dispenser like some lovesick teenager.
Dean Michaels comes in earlier every day now, and I’m zero chill about it.
It’s not even subtle anymore. He’s a permanent fixture in my mornings—same booth, same dark stare, same leather jacket. Like déjà vu with extra testosterone.
I finish refilling the sugar jars and try to act like it’s totally normal to feel my pulse rate spike every time I hear the bell over the door chime.
Today, he walks in just as the sun is coming over the big oak tree outside, sending a golden ray of light across the chipped tile floor.
My heart does a weird little skipping thing.
“Morning, Miss Aubrey,” Mr. Halpern calls from his stool, not even bothering to look up from his crossword. “You see the paper? Another coyote was spotted down by the creek. And the mayor’s kid failed his driving test again.”
“Poor kid. He’ll be the only senior riding his bike to prom,” I say, grinning. The normalcy of my daily life helps. Keeps me from floating away on this stupid little thrill that runs through me every time Dean’s heavy boots hit the floor of the diner.
He catches my eye as he sits, sliding into his usual spot, back of the diner, back to the wall, fingers tracing the cracked pleather of the booth.
I swear, every time he walks in, the whole place goes quiet for half a second, like everyone’s waiting for him to do something crazy. Hell, maybe I am, too.
I grab the coffeepot and a clean cup. My palms are already sweaty, so I hold the handle extra tight. “You’re here early today,” I say, pouring his coffee.
He just gives me that look. “Didn’t sleep.”
I nod like I get it, and believe it or not, I do. Sometimes you just can’t turn your brain off. Not in this town, not with all the ghosts, memories of the past, and what-ifs.
Dean’s eyes are constantly flicking from the front door to the window, cataloguing every move. Most folks in town would call it paranoia. I call it a survival instinct. I wonder what made him this way, what he is running from…or who.
He picks up the ceramic mug, his large fingers engulfing the handle, and sips, watching me over the rim.
There’s a heat in his eyes I can’t name.
It’s not the first time he’s looked at me like that, but it’s the first time I’ve let myself really stare back.
I wonder if he remembers what I remember.
My dress bunched up and around my waist, his breath hot against my neck, the way I begged him not to stop.
I flush hard, fumble the sugar bowl, and nearly drop the thing. Smooth, Aubrey. Real smooth.
He smirks. “You good?”
“Great,” I say, and it sounds more like a squeak. I clear my throat. “Just trying to dodge the Monday morning stigma.”
Gina pokes her head out of the kitchen, eyebrow arched. “You need me to save you, honey? Or are you actually enjoying yourself?”
I turn to glare at her, mouthing, Shut up. She grins, winks, and disappears back through the door. I hope she burns the toast.
The diner fills with the usual crowd…ranch hands with mud on their boots, the sheriff grabbing coffee to go, a group of moms in yoga pants who never actually go to yoga.
Dean watches, his expression unreadable.
I imagine how he would be in a real crowd, somewhere noisy and wild, and I get this butterfly flutter in my belly.
Between orders, I find myself drifting closer to his booth, desperate for any sort of interaction. He never initiates anything, or says much, but when he does, it’s like he’s letting me in on a little piece of his life.
“How long have you been working here?” he asks in a low voice.
“Since I was old enough to climb a stool. My mom says I was born holding a coffee pot,” I say. “I think she was just tired.”
“You ever want to do something else?”
His question catches me off guard. Nobody has ever asked me that before. Maybe they figure I’ll never leave Crystal Falls, or maybe nobody cares. But hearing it from him stings in a way that makes me want to tell the truth.
“Yeah,” I admit, my tone turning quiet. “Sometimes. I think about leaving. But who would serve Mr. Halpern his pie and stop Mrs. Ethan’s kids from setting the place on fire?”
Dean gives a little shrug and nods, like he gets it. “Family’s a bitch that way.” He looks away, jaw tense, and I want to reach across the table and touch him, but I don’t.
We do this dance every day. Flirt, pull back, flirt again.
Sometimes he’ll lightly touch my wrist when I set down his plate, his fingers rough and warm, and the touch lasts way too long to be accidental.
Sometimes I catch him smiling at my stupid jokes, only for the smile to fade quickly like he remembers he’s not allowed to be happy.
Every conversation with Dean is a game of chicken. Who will crack first? I’m dangerously close to losing.
By Thursday, the tension is killing me. Gina corners me in the back hallway. “You know, Aub, you could just ask him out. The world won’t end.”
I snort. “Says you. If it’s a disaster, and I’ll have to serve him coffee every morning until I die.”
Gina rolls her eyes. “Girl, stop! You’re allowed to be happy…to want things. Just don’t go all psycho chick on us, and burn the place down if it doesn’t go well, okay?”
I flip her off, and she laughs, tossing a rag at me. But her words stick.
Gi’s right. I’m allowed to want things, aren’t I? Even if it’s just one night. Even if it’s him.
That night, as I’m mopping up spilled chocolate milk and wishing for a meteor to hit the diner and put me out of my misery, Dean’s still there, and watching.
The dinner crowd has thinned out; it’s just us, a few regulars making small talk over pie, and the buzz of that stupid neon sign in the window.
Fuck it.
If I don’t do something, I’m going to lose my mind. So, I march over to his booth, trying not to overthink what I’m about to do. “Random question,” I say, wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans, “do you ever do karaoke?”
He raises an eyebrow. “You offering free humiliation?”
I laugh, nervous energy bubbling over. “It’s karaoke night at Maggie’s Taproom. It’s dumb, I know. But it’s fun. You should come. Everyone gets drunk, sings like shit, and tries to forget it ever happened in the morning.”
Dean sits there and just stares at me. I nearly back out, but then he gives this slow, lethal grin. “You singing?”
I shrug, trying to act like it’s nothing. “Maybe. Depends on how much whiskey I get in me.”
He nods. “All right. I’ll show. But you gotta sing.”
Holy crap, he actually agreed to come. My stomach flips. “Deal. But if you laugh when I butcher ‘Jolene,’ I’m spitting in your coffee for a week.”
He lets out a laugh, deep and rough, and stands, tossing a few bills on the table. “See you tonight, trouble.”
I freeze. Trouble. It makes my skin tingle, and my heart skip.
He walks out, and I’m left standing there like I’ve been hit by a truck. Gina pokes her head out again, all mischief. “Well, look at you, miss thing. Was that a date?”
“It’s not a date,” I snap, but my cheeks are burning. She just giggles as she wipes down the counter, not fooled for a second.
The rest of the shift is a blur. I spill coffee, forget to ring up a table, and almost burn my hand grabbing a piece of pie out of the case.
I can’t focus on anything but the way Dean looked at me, that dare in his eyes.
Everything feels charged, like the air before a summer storm.
I keep replaying the way he said “Trouble” … soft, almost possessive.
After closing, I linger in the empty diner, pretending to clean.
Really, I’m freaking out. I haven’t been this nervous since…
well, since the night of the wedding, if I’m honest. I try to picture Dean at Maggie’s Taproom, all leather and tattoos, maybe loosening up, maybe finally letting me in.
What if he kisses me again? What if he leaves again?
I head home, a ball of nerves. I change clothes three times, curse my reflection, and finally settle on jeans, boots, and my favorite top. Not too casual, not too desperate.
I text Gina:
If I chicken out, you owe me tequila shots for life.
She replies instantly:
Bitch, please. You’re a goddess. Go get your hot biker.
I laugh, anxiety and excitement tangling in my chest. For once, I’m not letting fear win. I’m going to Maggie’s, I’m going to have fun, and I’m going to sing karaoke.
And just maybe, I’ll find out if this thing between Dean and me is real, or just another beautiful disaster waiting to happen.
No matter what, tonight’s the night I stop hiding.