Chapter Two
Cammi
I sprint down the hallway of Wilder House, shoes slapping against the wood floor. My bag bounces against my side, heavy with clothes I barely had time to throw in. Two strikes for being late. The next one costs me my job. I can’t. Not today.
I need every dollar I can get. Millie and Wilder told me to take my time, but I can’t sit in that apartment as a charity case—paying my own way is the only thing that’ll make it feel like mine. Even after just two days, I know I have to do everything I can to stay.
I round the corner too fast and—
Smash.
I hit someone. Hard. My feet skid. My bag slides across the floor, my hands scrape against the wall, and I land on my backside.
“Whoa! Are you okay?” The voice is calm and steady. Like someone who doesn’t panic.
I blink. Lift my head slowly. And I freeze.
Blue. The bluest eyes I’ve ever seen—bright, magnetic, like they could pull me under if I stared too long. And filled with concern. Is that surprise flickering under it too? No. I must be seeing things.
The concern in his eyes deepens. Oh God, I think I’ve been staring for too long. My cheeks go hot under his gaze. Get up, Cammi.
“I—I’m fine,” I stammer, scrambling up, but my knees wobble, and I slide back down.
My hands are shaking. Why are my hands shaking?
“Here.” He holds out a hand.
I hesitate, looking back into his solid, warm eyes. Then I take it—because what else do you do when someone holds out their hand like that? Heat rushes up my neck. My stomach flips.
His hand swallows mine. He pulls me up like I weigh nothing, and I get my first real look at him on the way.
He’s tall—I have to tip my head back—with a broad, heavy build that fills the narrow hallway, nothing lean about it.
Dark hair, a few days into a beard. Older than me.
A lot older, I think; there’s a steadiness in his face that the boys I know don’t have, lines at the corners of those blue eyes that say he’s lived a decade I haven’t touched yet. It should make me nervous. It doesn’t.
“Thanks,” I manage in a small voice.
“Sorry about the collision.” His lips curve slightly, a half-smile that makes my knees threaten to give again. “I should’ve been watching.”
“No, it’s fine. I—I was rushing,” I interrupt, securing my bag over my shoulder.
He shakes his head. “Really. It’s fine.”
I bite my lip, blushing. There’s something about him—calm, steady, safe—that makes me clumsy. Makes me act out of character. Makes my heartbeat erratic.
“I—I should go,” I stammer, tugging my bag tighter. “I’m late for work.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t rush me. Just nods. “Alright. Be careful.”
I mutter something and push myself into motion, heart hammering, mind spinning. I take one last glance over my shoulder as I round the corner.
He’s gone.
I tell myself to focus. Work. Don’t think about him. I can’t. Not now. Maybe, not ever. Besides, I have bills to pay—and I’m clearly losing it, too. Just yesterday, I thought I saw Rick lurking around the diner. I double-checked. No one there.
I shiver, and my steps speed up.
???
The diner smells like grease and coffee, a mix that should feel comforting but today just feels sharp in my nose. I duck behind the counter, tugging my apron tight, and try to ground myself. My legs feel like jelly from running, my heart still pounding from the hallway encounter.
I make myself move—arranging napkins, stacking menus, wiping down the counter the way I do a hundred times a day. Focus. But my mind won’t cooperate. The stranger lingers.
The clear blue of his eyes. That half-apologetic smile stirred something I’ve never felt, and my pulse picks up just remembering it. I shake my head, trying to push it away. I have no right to feel like this. I barely know him.
“Cammi?” a voice cuts through the fog. I whip my head around. It’s Danny, one of my coworkers.
“Yeah?” I say. It’s almost a whisper. As if my voice will erase my thoughts of him.
“You almost had another strike. I had to cover for you with Paul.”
“Oh, thanks. I got held up.” I force a smile.
Losing my job should terrify me. It isn’t sinking in at all. Danny says something else, but I can’t concentrate enough to answer properly. My mind keeps replaying the hallway. The hand. Those eyes.
I grab a rag and wipe a tabletop in big, exaggerated strokes, hoping no one notices how far away I am. The phone vibrates in my apron pocket. I pull it out and freeze.
Rick.
Panic clamps down on my chest tight. My fingers tremble as I stare at the screen.
For half a second I almost answer—
No.
I silence the call. The phone buzzes again almost immediately. Another call. I stare until it stops ringing.
Then a text: “You can’t stay away forever. I’m waiting.”
My stomach twists. My hands grip the counter so tight my knuckles ache. My breathing becomes shallow, panic rising—tight chest, dizziness, heat in my face.
And a realization hits me. I’m not going crazy. Maybe I did see Rick yesterday. I almost heave at the thought. I want to run. I want to scream. But I can’t.
“Hello.” A voice, far away.
“Hello?” The voice is closer now. Insistent. It cuts through the panic like a knife.
I snap back, the rag clenched in my fist. And then he’s there.
The hallway stranger. Tall. Calm. Solid—even more so in the cramped diner, like nothing in the world could shake him.
My gaze drops to his hands. Big. Strong.
I picture Rick crumpling under them, and the thought brings a strange, sudden peace.
I lift my eyes up to his, and I’m pinned again. Everything else falls away—just my fluttering heart and the breath I don’t even realize I’ve been holding. He steps closer, leaning in slightly, and that quiet presence wraps around me like a shield.
Just like that, the last shred of panic loosens its grip.
“Are you alright?” he asks softly. No condescension. No judgment. Just quiet concern.
I blink, then clear my throat. “Sorry—hi. I’m sorry, hi,” I blurt out, finally answering. “I’m Cammi. I’m alright.” I close my eyes briefly in pure mortification.
“I’m glad, Cammi,” he replies calmly. His gaze doesn’t wander, doesn’t linger anywhere it shouldn’t, doesn’t make me feel small.
My cheeks go hot, and I fumble with the menus. “I’m not always clumsy. I mean—I’m good at my job. Well, not great at it or anything. I just—” I trail off, blushing harder under his amused, patient stare.
Pull yourself together, Cammi.
“Cammi?” he asks softly.
My eyes snap to his face. I exhale softly before answering. “Y-yes.”
“Noah,” he says, holding out a hand. “It’s nice to meet you properly.”
I stare at his hand a second before I put mine in it. His grip is firm but not crushing, and the warmth of it sends another ripple of heat through me. I can feel my face burning, my stomach twisting, and I try not to trip over my own thoughts.
“You too.” I exhale, finally finding my footing. “Thanks for the rescue this morning. Sorry if I made it weird.”
“It’s alright. Glad I could help.”
He looks so unbothered. Even after the panic attack he just watched happen. “You’re really calm,” I blurt out. “Even after…you know.”
He raises an eyebrow, faintly amused. “Even after what?”
I flush. “Nothing.” I straighten my apron. “Just—thank you. For being…here.”
He nods. “Of course.”
“Can I…um…take your order?” I ask, my words coming out faster than intended.
“Surprise me.”
“Sorry?” I ask, blinking.
He tilts his head, watching me with that piercing stare. “I’d like…whatever you recommend. I trust you know what’s good here.”
I blink. “I…uh…okay.” I flush, then flash him a smile. “Since you’ve put your trust in me, why don’t you grab a table, and I’ll bring it over.”
“Your wish is my command.”
He gives me a final nod and crosses to a booth by the window. I can’t help watching him go. He fascinates me—draws me in without doing a thing. He sits, and our eyes catch across the diner. My breath hitches, half want, half embarrassment.
Focus, Cammi.
I turn away, scribble an order, and mutter it to the cook. My hands won’t quite stop shaking. I don’t look at him, but I can feel him watching—quiet, steady—and it’s driving me out of my mind. There’s a pull between us, a tension that doesn’t make sense yet.
And somehow, for the first time in days, I don’t feel small. I don’t feel alone. Even with Rick out there.
A few minutes later I set the plate in front of him. Pancakes, coffee, syrup. “Here you go.” I bite my lip. “You said surprise you, so—I took a guess. Pancakes, and the coffee’s black. Strong. You strike me as a black-coffee kind of man.”
He looks at the plate, then up at me, and something in his face shifts—pleased, almost caught off guard. “Black, strong. The kind that kicks you awake before the day starts.” He huffs a quiet laugh. “Nailed it. How’d you know?”
Heat climbs my neck, but I’m smiling. “Lucky guess.”
“I don’t think it was luck.”
He tilts his head, watching me. “You’re nervous.”
I freeze. My stomach twists, and I want to sink through the floor. “I am not,” I insist quickly, too quickly.
He chuckles low enough that I feel it more than hear it. “You totally are. Don’t worry, I find it endearing.”
Heat floods my face. “It’s not.”
“Sure,” he says, eyes glinting. “Totally not.”
I shake my head and retreat to the counter.
Every minute near him makes me feel more like myself, not less.
He eats slow, in no hurry, and between refills we talk—small things, nothing heavy.
Whether I like the job. Whether he eats alone often.
Depends on where the day takes me, he says, and I don’t push.
There’s a lot he isn’t saying. I know the feeling.
When he finally stands to go, he pauses. “I like the way you handle everything,” he says. “Even when you’re nervous.” A beat. “I’ll be back, Cammi.”
It isn’t a question. My pulse refuses to settle. But I’m smiling—just a little.
And I know one thing for sure: I want to see him again.