5. Dannica
DANNICA
LOCAL WOMAN DENIES INTEREST IN STRANGER, MONITORS DOOR ANYWAY
If I look at that door one more time when the bell chimes, I’m going to lose it.
Last I checked, my job is to serve coffee, not monitor the entrance like I’m on some kind of emotional lookout duty.
I don’t even know what I’m expecting. Or why I’m expecting anything.
It’s not like I have room in my life to be distracted by some out-of-towner who may or may not exist outside of one great burger and a conversation I definitely overanalyzed.
I haven’t even figured my own shit out yet.
Mom and Grandma’s offer is constantly looping around in my mind.
If I say yes, that’s it. This diner, these walls, this town… It becomes my life. And if I say no… I press my lips together, shaking the thought off before it can take root again. Either way, getting hung up on a stranger is not exactly clever if I don’t even know whether I’ll be here in a month.
The bell jingles again. Luke Saddler wanders in, looking like the mere concept of hunger has offended him.
I tell myself I’m not disappointed. Why would I be?
Just because I had one of the most engaging conversations in months doesn’t mean I wish I could see Mystery Man again.
I look back down at the coffee pot as if I didn’t just react like one of Pavlov’s dogs. I swear I’m not doing it on purpose.
Ugh, why can’t I stop thinking of the cheeseburger stranger? If I admit it out loud, the girls will never let me live it down, and I refuse to become the diner’s newest episode of “Dannica Has Feelings for a Stranger.”
He isn’t special.
He’s just some guy who breezed through town two weeks ago and apparently hasn’t felt the urge to come back for another burger.
I know he’s still in town. The only two topics of conversation in Boudica Springs are the festival and the gorgeous stranger.
Not my words, the town’s, but who am I to go against popular opinion.
My mind always drifts back to the same question every time Mystery Man comes to mind. Why hasn’t he come back to the diner? Our food is excellent.
Frustrated with myself for acting like I was expecting a marriage proposal from a guy I spoke to once, I snort into the coffee pot. “Dannica, you need to get a grip.”
Quadri glances up from the pass, one eyebrow lifting just enough to say you okay over there?
but she doesn’t comment. Actually, no one has.
Which means one of two things. Either they haven’t noticed my new habit of snapping my head toward the door every time the bell rings, or they’re stockpiling ammunition.
Frankly, I think it’s the latter. That lot smell gossip the way sharks smell blood. And they’re a hell of a lot faster to circle. If they even suspected I was waiting for Mystery Man to walk back through that door, I’d never hear the end of it.
The bell over the door jingles again, and I look before I can stop myself. Gosh fucking darn it.
It’s not him. I focus my attention back on Luke. Grease streaks one forearm, his backwards cap sits crooked on his head, and there’s a dark smear along the knee of his jeans that I sincerely hope is motor oil.
“Before you ask,” he says, dropping onto a stool at the counter, “the answer is yes. The truck exploded emotionally.”
Mr. Davenport lowers his coffee. “Emotionally?”
Luke points at him. “Exactly the reaction I had.”
I walk over with the coffee pot. “Please tell me you’re not diagnosing vehicles with feelings again.”
“If people can have check engine lights, why can’t trucks have emotional breakdowns?”
“That’s not how mechanics work.”
“That’s because you fear innovation.”
I snort despite myself. Luke side-eyes the pot. “Are you trying to give me regular coffee? Looks like you could use a refill yourself.”
“Shoot, sorry. But seriously, how many caramel lattes can you drink in one day?”
“You should have it on tap. Better yet, bottomless.”
“I’ll tell Grandma.” The thought sticks in my throat because soon I might be the one making that decision. I clear the lump from my throat. “You having lunch?”
“Yeah, I better. Mary said if I didn’t eat before she came over this afternoon, she’d bring a horse bag full of diner scraps.” He shivers. “Y’all have amazing food but no thanks.”
Luke and Mary have been friends since they were kids, so she knows he can be a grumpy Gus if he doesn’t eat in time.
Mr. Davenport hums thoughtfully. “Sounds like she might have an idea.”
“Wow.” Luke presses a hand to his chest. “This diner used to be a safe space.”
“It stopped being a safe space when you tried fixing the coffee machine with duct tape,” I remind him.
“In my defense, it worked for almost six minutes.”
“Two,” Mr. Davenport mutters.
“Fine, two,” Luke grumbles good-naturedly.
“Excuse me, miss?”
The woman in booth three waves me over, saving me from Luke and Mr. Davenport’s bickering.
I swear, they’re like an old married couple most days.
She’s wearing a trucker’s cap, but everything else about her, from her perfect eyeliner, sleek leather jacket, to the boots that definitely cost more than my monthly coffee budget, suggests she belongs on a runway instead of behind the wheel of the eighteen-wheeler she drove up in.
She looked out of place climbing out of that truck.
Up close, even more so. I grab the coffee pot out of habit. “Need a top-up?”
“Oh shit, no.” She laughs, covering her mug. “If I have another cup, I’ll be able to fly my rig, never mind drive it.”
I laugh with her, trying not to stare. She really doesn’t fit the stereotype. Apparently, I’m failing miserably at hiding that thought because she grins.
“You’re not the first person to be surprised by my line of work.”
“Sorry,” I say quickly. “Didn’t mean to stare.”
“It’s fine.” She waves a hand. “I didn’t think my life would turn out this way either, but Daddy wanted me to join the business working in his office back home. Keeping it in the family like.”
“And yet here you are.”
“And yet here I am.” She leans back in the booth. “Didn’t want to spend my life stuck in one town staring at spreadsheets, so we came to a compromise. This way I get to see the whole country.”
The guy across from her—another trucker, judging by the grease on his sleeves—grins. “Careful. She’s been judging our fashion choices since Nebraska.”
She flashes him a bright smile. “Hey, I’m just saying not all of us want to live in plaid.”
He clutches his shirt like she just called his kid ugly. “You take that back.”
I laugh again, but her earlier words stick somewhere uncomfortable in my chest.
Didn’t want to spend my life stuck in one town.
My grip tightens slightly on the coffee pot. It must be nice making that kind of decision like it’s yours to make. Not something waiting for you at the dinner table.
Suddenly, the diner feels a little smaller than it did five minutes ago, but I give myself a mental shake before I get mopey.
“If it’s not coffee,” I say, nodding toward her mug, “what can I do you for?”
“I’m new at this,” she says. “And I can’t trust Phil here to give me the right information, so I’m hoping you can help.”
Phil scoffs like a man deeply betrayed by her mistrust.
I blow a loose strand from my face. “Ask away.”
“What’s with all the decorations?” she continues. “Are you all having a festival or something?”
“Yep.” I rest my hand on the back of the booth. “Boudica Springs, Misty Hills, and Mountain Springs combine forces every year to throw one hell of a shindig. This year, we’re even adding a Halloween masquerade.”
Despite how conflicted I am about my life right now, I can hear the pride in my voice as I answer.
Phil flicks his straw paper at her. “What did I tell you, Jo? You owe me twenty.”
“It’s not even Halloween yet.” She pouts as she takes the money out of her pocket.
“I know,” I say with a shrug. “But farmers are usually busy around then, so we do it earlier. Makes life easier for everyone.”
Mr. Davenport turns around from the counter, his false teeth firmly in place, something that’s only happened once this month. “Tennyson’s already got bunting hanging everywhere,” he grouches. “They’re still taking down last year’s paint.”
“Don’t be salty, Ashley,” Phil shoots back. “You love the festival as much as the rest of us. Didn’t you win the apple-bobbing competition three years running?”
Mr. Davenport puffs out his chest. “Mmhmm.”
“You wouldn’t imagine it,” I say to Jo, lowering my voice conspiratorially, “but when Mr. Davenport’s got those chompers in, nothing stops him.”
To prove the point, he snaps his teeth open and closed a couple of times, and Jo bursts out laughing.
She slides some money across the table for her coffee and stands to leave. “Well, I guess I’ll have to make sure I swing by when I’m passing through again.”
“Stop in and say hi if you do,” I say.
She lifts her cap in salute. “Sure will.”
The bell jingles again, and for a split second—just one—I look up. Shit!
I’m not at all disappointed to see it’s just a couple from out of town, arguing quietly over whether they should split a milkshake like it’s a binding contract. I don’t linger this time, which feels like progress.
“Table four,” Quadri calls, sliding a plate of sizzling steak and mashed potatoes onto the pass.
“I’m on it.”
The next hour blurs the way it always does when the diner hits that sweet spot between busy and chaotic. Orders stack, coffee flows, and the entire place hums with conversation.
But it’s busier. Not just the locals but more and more tourists coming in for the season.
A group of hikers comes in around noon, muddy boots tracking dirt across the floor and loud voices ranking trails. Two teenagers from one of the other towns—Misty Hills, if I had to guess—spend twenty minutes debating costume ideas for the masquerade as though their social lives depend on it.
“It’s not just a party,” a girl with blue hair insists, stabbing a fry for emphasis. “It’s a statement.”
“A statement of what?” her friend asks.