Willow #3
Xander never takes his eyes off me. “It’s a jacket.”
“It’s a very expensive jacket.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I absolutely do.”
Nothing happens. Then the corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly, and I understand with sudden, inconvenient clarity why women probably do stupid things around him. That expression isn’t even a full smile, but it still hits like a problem.
“I’m still having it cleaned,” I say, tightening my grip on the jacket. “That part isn’t optional.”
He looks at me for another long second before finally nodding. “Alright.”
I exhale so hard my shoulders drop with it. “Thank you.” Then I look down at the disaster on the table and feel a fresh wave of mortification. “I’ll get you another meal. On the house.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Gabe says smoothly.
“It is necessary,” I shoot back. “Because I just ruined his.”
Julian leans back against the booth, still far too entertained by all of this. “For what it’s worth, I was enjoying the show.”
“Your support in this difficult time means everything.”
Xander sits back down like none of this happened, like he wasn’t just baptized in diner food in front of half the town.
“Another coffee,” he says.
I stare at him. “You’re covered in eggs.”
“Coffee,” he repeats, as calm as ever.
I let out a breath through my nose, turn on my heel, and march back to the counter before my professionalism gives out entirely.
By the time I return with fresh coffee and a replacement plate, the table is clean, the worst of the mess is gone, and the mood has shifted into an atmosphere I don’t entirely trust.
It isn’t softer, exactly, but there’s an ease there now that wasn’t before, as if spilling breakfast on one of them somehow broke the tension instead of making it worse.
I set the new plate in front of Xander. “Round two.”
He looks down at it, then back at me. “Thank you.”
Julian is still smiling like this has been the highlight of his day. Gabe has that thoughtful, observant look again, the one that makes me think he’s putting pieces together somewhere in the back of his mind.
And Xander looks like he’s decided something.
I have no idea what, and I don’t like that I’m curious about it.
They finish eating without any further disasters.
Julian keeps finding reasons to speak to me every time I pass.
Gabe asks another question about the town and listens to the answer like he actually cares.
Xander says very little, but I can feel him notice everything, and I hate the effect that has on my nerves.
When they finally stand to leave, I feel my chest loosen. Relief, mostly. The kind you feel when you’ve just barely made it through an awkward social catastrophe without bursting into flames.
I bring the check over and set it down, stepping back before anybody can turn this into another interaction.
Xander reaches for it. He glances at the total without reacting, pulls out a card, and slides it into the folder with the kind of ease that suggests money has never once been a source of stress in his life.
I take it, run it, return it.
“Have a good day,” I say, already turning away.
“Willow.”
I stop and turn back.
Xander is standing now, closer than I expected him to be. He gestures toward the jacket. “I’ll be back for it.”
I swallow hard, trying to blink back the frustrated tears when I think about this and what it’ll cost. “When?”
“By the end of the week.”
And just like that, they leave.
The bell over the door rings. Afternoon light spills in, then the door swings shut behind them, and the whole diner seems to exhale at once.
Noise comes rushing back in, forks clinking, people talking, Lara yelling for somebody to pick up table two, Bill muttering something darkly judgmental about city people.
Everything settles back into place.
Everything except me.
Because I’m still standing there holding an expensive jacket that smells faintly like smoke and cologne. Still standing there with the receipt folder in my hand, trying to shake off the feeling that a storm just passed through the diner and only pretended to leave.
I glance down at the receipt.
Then I stop.
Because the tip is absurd.
Not generous. Not kind. Absurd.
I stare at the number, sure I must be reading it wrong, but no, there it is, clear as day, sitting on the line like it’s completely normal to leave that much money behind after breakfast and mild public humiliation.
I look at the door again, then back at the receipt.
Who is he?
My jaw tightens. I fold the receipt and shove it into my apron a little harder than necessary.
“Men like that,” I mutter under my breath as I grab the coffee pot again. Too used to getting what they want.
I look at the jacket, then toward the door one last time before I force myself to turn away.
Because I have tables to clear, coffee to pour, and exactly zero intention of spending the rest of my shift thinking about a man with cold blue eyes and impossible confidence.
Unfortunately, judging by the way my pulse still hasn’t settled, intention and reality are shaping up to be two very different things.