3. Dannica #2
He’s probably arrogant. Most gorgeous men are. I bet he fucks and chucks girls because he can’t deal with anything deeper than his next coffee order. Yeah, that’s it.
When I return with his coffee, he looks up and smiles. Damn, his teeth could blind a girl.
Something in my chest relaxes. His smile is friendly, not cocky, and I feel bad for judging him.
“Thanks. Smells great.”
The way I beam at him, you’d assume he told me I’ve got pretty eyes. I scramble to think of something witty to say, something I’d say to any of my other customers to keep them feeling welcome, but I’ve literally got nothing. Not even a headline comes to mind, so I stick with a cliché.
“One burger coming right up.”
On my way back with his burger, I notice he’s still studying the place like it’s an exhibit, his gaze moving in slow, deliberate sweeps like he’s framing it piece by piece.
CUTE STRANGER BECOMES DEVASTATING WHEN FOCUSED.
“Here we go,” I say, setting the plate down. “The pride of Boudica Springs. Or at least the pride of Llewellen’s griddle.”
He smiles, slow and warm. Not smirk-warm. Not I-know-I’m-handsome warm. Just… warm.
“It looks perfect, thank you.”
“I haven’t had a complaint yet. It’s a rule.”
He glances around again. “How long has this place been here?”
“Since before I was born. Since before my mom was born. My grandma says the building used to be a feed store, then someone realized people prefer pancakes to livestock.”
“That’s a good pivot.”
“You’d be surprised how many businesses don’t make it.”
He nods with genuine interest, not the distracted politeness of someone making small talk, which is new.
“And you?” he asks. “Have you worked here long?”
“My whole life. Practically learned to walk between booths.”
He tilts his head. “That explains it.”
Suspicion rings out like a warning bell, and I narrow my eyes. “Explains what?”
“You move like you know every inch of this place. Like you belong to it.”
That settles somewhere between a compliment and a cage. It itches between my shoulder blades, like he’s seeing something I try not to think about too much. I don’t say anything. I wouldn’t know what to say.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.”
The sigh slips out before I can catch it. “You didn’t. You can’t help what you see.”
“Would you prefer people saw something different?”
“It doesn’t matter what I want. Small towns and obligations go hand in hand.” I want to superglue my lips together. Why the hell did I say that? Why didn’t I brush it off like I always do when people question me about my life’s choices?
He nods. “That doesn’t just come from small towns. So, if there were no obligations, what would you do?”
I don’t know what it is about the way he’s asking the question, but I want to answer this total stranger who just came in to have a bite to eat. I should get back to waiting tables. “It doesn’t matter,” I blurt.
“If it doesn’t matter, then why can’t you tell me?” That smirk on his face should come with a warning label.
I point the coffee pot at him. “You’re good. You know that?”
“Maybe I recognize something in you that I see in myself.”
“You mean you’re being buried under obligation too?”
I mean it as a joke, but I see it hits him the same way his observations and suggestions hit me.
“I wish it was that simple.”
I feel that in my gut. “I get it. Wow, this is why people tell their hairdressers everything. It’s easier to talk to a stranger.”
He laughs, the sound rolling over me and making my stomach feel like it’s trying out for a gymnastics championship. If Beverly thought my conversations were inappropriate, she’d drop dead on the floor at the direction my thoughts are heading.
He grasps his chest as though I’ve wounded him. “You mean you’ve been telling your hairdresser all this too. It’s not just me?”
I laugh. “Oh, I don’t tell Imani anything. She’s the equivalent of the town newspaper—if we had a newspaper, that is.”
“In that case, you’re forgiven.”
I can’t stop smiling, he’s so easy to talk to.
“You’re great at evading questions, you know that?” he asks.
The back of my neck feels uncomfortably hot.
But for some strange, masochistic reason, I still want to open up to him.
“The truth?” I glance around the diner. Mr. Davenport is arguing with his pie, and Beverly pretending she isn’t listening to every conversation within a ten-foot radius.
The truckers are comparing routes over coffee.
“I’d tell stories.”
He cocks his head. “What kind of stories?”
I shrug. “People spend their whole lives thinking they’re ordinary or worse, invisible. Then you look a little closer and discover they’re not.” I gesture around. ”Everyone has a story. Most of them never get told. I want to tell them.”
Something shifts in his expression. “And that’s what you want to do?”
“Yeah.” I smile. “That was the plan anyway.”
“You said it in past tense.”
I shrug slowly. “Back to that obligations thing.”
He smiles. “Yeah.”
There’s a beat when neither of us speak, but it’s not uncomfortable. Then he breaks the silence.
“Aren’t waitresses supposed to introduce themselves before taking your order?”
Shit! Crap! I really am off my game today. “You caught me. My name’s Dannica.”
“Nice to meet you, Dannica.” I wait for him to give me his name, but he doesn’t.
“Shouldn’t you return the favor?”
“Next time?”
“Hmmm, unfair, but I get it.”
And I do. Loads of people slide through here, wishing to keep to themselves. It’s part of our appeal.
“Try your burger before it gets cold.”
He lifts the burger with long, lean fingers and takes a bite. Closing his eyes, he tips his head back and lets out a low, satisfied groan.
Oh.
Oh.
Okay.
That should be illegal. Very, very illegal.
I clear my throat. I need to think of something to say that is not as wildly inappropriate as spank me.
“You’re not from around here,” I blurt.
So much for subtle. Shit. I hope he can’t hear how breathless I suddenly sound.
“What gave me away?”
“You mentioned that obligations don’t only happen in small towns, so I figure wherever you’re from must be big enough to have traffic. And you didn’t immediately complain about the weather or ask if I know your cousin.”
“My parents were both only children.”
Huh? It takes me a while to realize he’s answering the cousin statement. Right. Back to business. Very good. I need the distraction.
“So, what brings you to town, Mystery Man?”
He dabs his mouth with a napkin. “Curiosity.”
That’s either intriguing or deeply unhelpful. I go with unhelpful.
“That’s vague.” I guess I am pushing.
“I like small towns,” he says. “Every place has a story.”
“Oh?” I lean against the booth, forgetting for a second that I’m technically on shift. “And what’s ours?”
He gestures lightly. “Family-run diner. Staff that argue like siblings. A patron who says ‘mmhmm’ like punctuation.”
I blink. “You noticed that?”
“You notice things too,” he says gently. “You see people like headlines.”
My stomach drops.
“How would you know that?”
“I heard you,” he says, amused.
I freeze.
DEATH BY HUMILIATION IMMINENT.
“You heard me?”
“Just one. Something about devastating when focused. To be fair you were only two feet away when you said it.”
I want the ground to swallow me whole. He grins. Not mocking. Just delighted.
“For what it’s worth,” he adds, “I’m flattered.”
I need to be more careful, I wonder how many other headlines I’ve blurted out without realizing.
I splutter an awkward “enjoy your meal” and retreat to the sound of his amused and sinfully sexy chuckle.
Over the next hour, I find myself orbiting his table, topping up his coffee twice, and asking if he needs ketchup like I didn’t already leave it there.
He asks about the town. About my grandma. About whether business is better in summer or winter. He continues to listen like the answers matter.
But when I ask about him, he sidesteps with practiced grace. “Do you always interview your waitresses?” I tease.
“Only the interesting ones.”
My breath catches just for a second. Before I can respond, Llewellen calls my name. “Dannica, supplier’s back on the line!”
Of course, perfect timing. I straighten. “Duty calls.”
“Story calls,” he corrects quietly.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m sure you’ll have a headline or two creeping up.”
Something about that hits harder than it should.
Mostly because lately, headlines are all I’m writing.
I hesitate before turning on my heel and heading to the kitchen before I can embarrass myself any further.
My pulse is still thrumming like it’s training for a marathon, and I have absolutely no intention of examining why.
Typical. The first interesting thing that’s happened all week had to happen right after Grandma dropped a life-altering decision in my lap.
To distract myself from my depressing thoughts, I focus on walking away so I don’t bump into any more furniture.
Why does walking away from a complete stranger suddenly feel like a test I didn’t study for?
Am I leaning left? Is my ass jiggling? Are my shoulders doing something suspicious?
Ugh, if they are, I can’t do anything about it.
Don’t look back, Dannica.
Don’t. Look. Back.
By the time I finish with Mike, Mystery Man has disappeared.