Chapter 11
The next six weeks pass in that familiar monotony where I blink and it’s the middle of November.
There are no further social media requests from Reeve.
No mysterious lawyers tracking me down on rainy streets in the middle of the night.
No Kittys whisking me into love triangles in eerily realistic fever-like dreams.
I almost forget about all of it.
That is, until I’m at Lou’s Groovy Grill, waiting on a well-deserved hot breakfast. The bell above the door chimes, and Reeve walks in.
He’s in a suit again, which, unbeknownst to me until now, is apparently my Kryptonite.
Covering it is a long, open wool overcoat, such a deep shade of brown that I can make out the fine dusting of snowflakes on his shoulders.
His hair is perfectly coiffed, exactly like the last time I saw him, awakening this deep, primal urge to run my fingers through it.
I watch his eyes scan the busy diner, presumably looking for somewhere to sit. The moment before they land on me in my spacious, four-person cracked-leather booth, I flash back to that night in the dance hall: my lie when he asked if I’d ever looked for him online and how smugly he caught me.
In an act of self-preservation, I pull one of the menus from the plastic holder at the end of the table, whip it open, and duck—allowing Lou’s fourteen different omelet offerings to hide my face completely.
My fingers stick to the vinyl. Ensnared by maple syrup or a rogue blot of jam. Reeve doesn’t spot me, or if he does, he doesn’t care, because his voice carries from across the diner in the direction of the stools along the counter where Donny and the other locals usually sit.
“One cup of coffee, please, Rosie. Black. And a Fit Slam when you have a moment.”
I lower the menu just enough to see the back of his head.
He is, in fact, at the counter. Sandwiched between Donny’s brother Bill and Zoe’s cousin Clive with the perpetually sweaty hands.
I am tempted to follow my instincts, which are to discreetly mime pack up my meal to go motions at Rosie, slip out the front door with my white Styrofoam container, and be the unnamed culprit when Nurse Bouchard asks the orderlies who stunk up the employee break room with the smell of deep-fried potatoes.
Instead, I set my menu down, press my shoulders back, and remind myself that West Lake is my town. If anyone should be eating half-cold eggs on a saggy polyester couch, it should be him.
Twelve whole minutes pass where nothing notable happens other than Rosie pours Reeve a cup of coffee and then laughs loudly at something he says, slapping the counter between them so hard the silverware clinks.
I start to think that maybe my breakfast will play out far less dramatically than I imagined.
I’ll eat. Then leave, with him never the wiser.
But then the front door opens, and the bell chimes, and I see, with almost crystal clarity, the next few moments ahead of me.
I’m about to have a problem.
A five-foot-three, two-tufts-of-white-hair-on-an-otherwise-completely-bald-head-shaped problem.
“Excuse me, young man,” my resident Mr. McNaught says, tapping Reeve on the back with his cane. “You’re sitting in my seat.”
Reeve swivels around to face him. Their eyes are almost level even though Reeve is still fully seated.
I silently chastise myself for not predicting this snafu.
Counter seats at Lou’s are sacred. The same eight bodies have filled them every morning between the hours of seven and nine for as long as I can remember.
There was even a rumor once that Donny inherited his seat when his dad passed away—that it was written in his will.
Reeve is understandably unaware of this delicate dynamic.
Still, he slips from his seat and stands.
“Not a problem, sir. I was just keeping it warm.”
His gaze lifts from Mr. McNaught to the busy diner.
There is no time to reach for my fourteen-omelet shield before it lands on me.
“Would you mind doing me a favor?” Reeve says, bending closer to Mr. McNaught. “When my breakfast comes, could you ask Rosie to bring it over to that table?”
He points at the vacant bench on the other side of my booth.
No, no, no, no, no.
“Mr. McNaught.” My voice comes out embarrassingly shrill. “Wouldn’t you prefer to join me? The seats are far more comfortable. Excellent back support.”
Mr. McNaught doesn’t even entertain this alternative. He just glances at me briefly before sliding into his seat, reaching out his hand as Bill hands him the crossword section of the newspaper.
Reeve retrieves his coffee, his confident stride slowing to a more tentative step as he nears my table.
“Hey. Sorry about that, I hope you don’t mind…” He gestures at the open seat across from me, now deciding that it’s probably polite to wait for an invitation. However, my response to this awkward exchange is interrupted when Rosie appears with Reeve’s Fit Slam breakfast.
“Where to, sweetheart?”
Reeve looks at me and waits.
I gesture at the empty seat across from me with my vinyl menu before returning it to its holder at the end of the table, and Reeve slides into the space across from me.
“Looks great, Rosie,” Reeve says as she sets his breakfast in front of him.
“You enjoy, love.” She squeezes him on the shoulder before turning her face in my direction. “Yours will be just another minute or two, hon.” Then she leans in close to whisper, “No ring,” wiggling both her fingers and eyebrows. “If you don’t want him, send him back my way.”
I can see Reeve grinning out of the corner of my eye but avoid meeting his gaze until my face returns to a less intense shade of pink. We sit in very awkward silence until the smell of his deep-fried potatoes hits my nose, and it occurs to me that he isn’t eating them.
“You can go ahead and start.”
He glances at the kitchen before turning back to me. “It’s okay. I’ll wait. It’s bad enough I invited myself over. I won’t make you watch me eat.” He tips his head in the direction of Mr. McNaught. “Thank you, by the way.”
“He’s one of my residents.” I tap my finger on the window in the direction of the retirement home kitty-corner to the diner.
“He walks over every morning, rain or shine. Says he doesn’t like the coffee in the dining room, but I think he just likes being here.
Talking to everyone. He’s been coming to Lou’s since it opened.
His picture is over on that wall.” I point to the space between the front door and the bathrooms next to the kitchen: a wall covered with photos of locals at various celebrations and the occasional celebrity customer.
Reeve twists around and looks at it until the door to the kitchen swings open and Rosie emerges with a plate in hand.
“Looks like your breakfast is here,” Reeve says. But as Rosie approaches, I get a clear view of the pancakes in her hand.
“Not mine.” I shake my head, and sure enough, she breezes past our booth, dropping the plate off at some other table before rushing back into the kitchen.
Reeve leans forward, resting his elbows on either side of his plate. “Yeah, I didn’t figure you for chocolate chip pancakes. You feel more like…western omelet, white toast, buttered, and coffee with cream but no sugar.” He sits back in his seat as if this is a question I’m supposed to answer.
“You’re guessing my breakfast order?”
He smiles, a slow, easy spread of his lips as if he’s pleased I’ve picked up on his game.
“One of my more underrated talents. I can be pretty accurate. Especially if I know the person well.”
“I’d be a little insulted that I don’t strike you as a chocolate chip pancake girl, but I guess you don’t really know anything about me.”
His right eyebrow lifts. It’s just the slightest shift.
“Is that a challenge? Jules DeMarco? Longtime resident of West Lake. Grew up here with her single mother.” He holds up a hand, listing out each fact on a finger.
“Next to impossible to find online until she gives herself away, decided she wanted to become a doctor at the age of ten when she slipped on some rocks down by the lake and was scooped up by a tall, dark-haired stranger and carried to his Subaru Outback, where he promptly patched up her knee, thus instilling a desire to help people and a penchant for handsome, dark-haired men.”
He smiles again, this one much slower, and its effect spreads through me like a slow, creeping heat.
“I’ll concede to one of those two things.”
He holds up a second hand. “You drink Pbrs and only rarely drink hard liquor because you don’t like the feeling of losing control.
You wanted a bulldog named Neil Patrick Harris as a kid, but your mom never let you have one because you always lived in apartments with no-pet policies.
You have a very ticklish spot between your collarbone and earlobe. ”
He pauses, and my mouth goes dry.
I take a very long drink of water. “You have an excellent memory.”
“I do.”
“And all of this screams Western omelet to you?”
Before he can answer, Rosie appears at our table. She sets down a plate in front of me. White toast: buttered. Coffee: cream but no sugar. Omelet: goat cheese and peppers.
Reeve eyes it as I pick up my fork.
“I don’t like ham.”
He picks up his as well. “I’ll remember that for next time.”
Three bites of eggs and two of toast, and my stomach stops with the weird fluttery spasms.
“So why are you here in West Lake this time?” I ask, needing to put us on a safe subject.
Reeve reaches for the little bowl of creamers, taking two and dumping them into his mug. “I’m having breakfast with a beautiful woman.”
I try to roll my eyes, but a small smile creeps across my face before I can stop it.
“I work for a developer in Toronto called Mansfield Properties,” he says. “We have a few projects coming up in the area, so I’m out here scouting locations.”
A large lump forms at the back of my throat. “What kind of projects?”