Willow
THIRTEEN
I’m not thinking about the kiss.
I’m absolutely, definitely, under no circumstances thinking about the kiss.
Not when I’m pouring coffee. Not when I’m wiping down tables.
Not when I’m trying to fall asleep at night and my brain decides that’s the perfect time to replay it in high definition like some kind of nightmare.
Especially not then.
Because every time I do, it’s the same thing.
The way Gabe looked right before it happened. At me, like I was the only woman on the planet. Like he wanted nothing but me.
And that’s the part I can’t stop thinking about. Not even the kiss itself, the look before it. Like he’d already decided I was worth paying attention to, which is ridiculous, because men like Gabe Stockton don’t look twice at women like me.
Except, he did.
“Willow, you’re drifting again.”
I blink and realize I’ve been holding the coffee pot over an empty mug for long enough that it’s starting to look intentional.
“I’m contemplating the deeper meaning of caffeine,” I say, pouring before this turns into a situation.
Lara makes a sound from the kitchen that could generously be called a laugh. “You’ve been contemplating it for ten minutes.”
“Growth takes time.”
“Pour the coffee.”
I do.
I pour coffee for a couple of tourists who have already asked me three times if this is the diner.
It’s not. It’s a diner.
A normal diner.
One that just happens to exist in the same town as three former rockstars who have apparently decided to turn my life into a recurring inconvenience and who have now been seen a lot online.
“Is it true The Lonely Ones were here?” one of the women asks, leaning forward like she’s about to be let in on state secrets.
“People come here all the time,” I say.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
She waits as I smile. Eventually, she sighs, clearly disappointed that I’m not going to provide a dramatic insider reveal.
Good.
Because I don’t have one.
I don’t know them, not really, not in any way that matters, which is what I keep telling myself.
Over.
And over.
And over.
“Hey, Willow,” someone calls from the counter. “You know those guys, right? The ones from the bar the other night?”
I don’t even look up. “No.”
“You were sitting with them.”
“I sit with a lot of people.”
Bill snorts from his booth. “Not like that, you don’t.”
I point at him without turning. “Eat your muffin, Bill.”
He grumbles but takes a bite.
The conversation doesn’t stop. It hasn’t stopped for three days, ever since Friday night. The entire town has decided that I’m somehow involved, which is ridiculous.
I’m not involved. I’m just adjacent.
Unwillingly.
Dangerously adjacent.
“People are saying they’re going to bring a lot of attention here,” another voice says. “That label thing. What’s it called?”
“Redemption Records,” someone answers.
“That’s it. Sounds like trouble to me.”
“Sounds like money to me,” someone else counters.
“And what happens when the money leaves?” Bill adds. “We’re still here.”
There’s a murmur of agreement.
I keep moving, that’s the trick.
If I stop, I’ll get dragged into it, and I don’t have the bandwidth to debate the future of the town while actively trying not to think about a man who kissed me like—
Nope.
Not finishing that thought.
Not today.
I grab a tray, load it up, and move toward the back tables.
Keep busy.
Stay moving.
Don’t think.
But at some point, between clearing plates and refilling drinks, I catch myself rubbing the back of my neck again, tension coiling there like it’s trying to live rent-free.
And the thought slips in, anyway.
Why would he kiss me? Of all people.
Gabe Stockton, who could probably have anyone he wants, anywhere, anytime.
And he chose me.
I glance down at myself.
Jeans that fit but aren’t perfect, shirt clinging in ways I’m very aware of, soft, curvy, not exactly what men like him usually go for.
“Stop it,” I mutter under my breath.
“Talking to yourself now?” Lara calls.
“Always,” I shoot back.
“Good. At least someone’s listening.”
I huff out a laugh despite myself and push through the door into the main floor and walk directly into a human being.
A solid one.
With shoulders.
And a very unfairly familiar chest.
I bounce back a step on instinct, already bracing to apologize, when a hand comes out to hold me, warm and steady like this sort of thing happens to him all the time.
“Careful,” a voice says, far too amused for someone I just collided with.
I know that voice.
Because I cannot seem to exist in this town for more than seventy-two hours at a time without one of them spawning into my personal space like some kind of very attractive glitch in reality.
I look up.
Julian.
Leaning there like he didn’t just appear out of nowhere and almost get taken out by a waitress with a tray and unresolved issues.
His hair is a mess in that deliberate way that should be illegal, jacket slung over one shoulder, posture loose like he’s been here long enough to establish residency.
His grin kicks up the second he sees my face fully.
“Well,” he says, completely unbothered. “Funny running into you here.”
I blink at him. “I work here.”
“Exactly,” he replies, like that explains everything.
It doesn’t. In fact, it raises several new concerns.
I narrow my eyes. “What do you want?”
“Food, ideally. But I’ll settle for your company.”
“That’s not on the menu.”
“It should be.”
I grab a notepad anyway because, unfortunately, I’m a professional. “What are you ordering?”
He leans closer, just enough to make it feel conspiratorial. “My tour guide.”
I blink. “A what?”
“My tour guide,” he repeats. “Specifically one who can take me to a bookstore.”
I stare at him. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“There’s literally one bookstore in this town.”
“I’m aware.”
“And you can’t find it?”
“I could,” he says. “But where’s the fun in that?”
I close my eyes briefly. “Julian.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve been on my feet for ten hours.”
“Great,” he says. “You can sit down in the car.”
“I’m not driving you to a bookstore.”
“Walking, then.”
“I’m not walking you to a bookstore.”
He tilts his head, studying me like he’s trying to figure out where the crack in my argument might be.
Then he smiles, and I know I’m in trouble, because that smile means he’s about to do something annoying.
“You’re off in twenty minutes,” he says.
I freeze. “How do you know that?”
He shrugs. “I asked.”
“Who?”
“Lara.”
I whip around. “Lara…”
She doesn’t even look up from the grill. “He asked nicely.”
“You sold me out.”
“You’re not a secret,” she replies.
I turn back. Julian looks entirely too pleased with himself.
“I hate you,” I tell him.
“Strong feelings already,” he says. “I’m flattered.”
“That’s not what this is.”
“It feels like it.”
I point the pen at him. “Order food or leave.”
He considers. “Both.”
“Pick one.”
“Fine. Burger. Fries. And a ride to the bookstore.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“I’ve been told.”
I scribble the order down with more force than necessary and turn to go.
“Willow.”
I pause.
Not because of him, because of the tone. It’s different. Less playful.
I glance back.
He’s watching me, expression softer now. “Rough day?”
I shrug. “Just busy.”
He nods like he doesn’t believe me, but he lets it go, which is unexpected.
I turn back toward the kitchen.
“Excuse me?”
The voice cuts across the room loud enough to turn heads.
I don’t even need to look.
Table six. Of course. He’s been an issue ever since he walked in.
I take a breath, paste on the customer smile, and turn. “Yes?”
The man doesn’t bother hiding the way his eyes drag over me, like he’s assessing something he’s already decided he doesn’t like. “This is taking a while.”
“You’ve been here eight minutes,” I say evenly.
He scoffs, leaning back like the chair offended him personally. “Well, maybe if you spent less time flirting with every guy who walks in…”
I go very still.
The smile stays. Barely.
“I’m working,” I say.
“Doesn’t look like it,” he mutters, loud enough that the table beside him goes quiet. “Too busy playing hostess instead of doing your job.”
There’s a flicker of heat in my chest now.
I’ve dealt with worse. I have. But there’s an edge in the tone, the way he says it like I’m something he can reduce down to a joke in front of a room full of people.
“Your order is being prepared,” I bite back. “I’ll bring it out when it’s ready.”
He smirks. “Yeah, you do that. That’s what you’re here for.”
I nod once.
Because if I don’t leave right now, I’m going to say something that ends with me unemployed and possibly banned from multiple establishments.
I turn, and stop, because Julian is there. Close enough that I can feel the shift before I even look at him.
I didn’t hear him move, didn’t see him cross the room, but somehow, he did, and he’s not smiling.
“Hey,” he says, easy on the surface, but there’s more underneath it now. “We got a problem?”
The man blinks, thrown off immediately. “I… no, I was just…”
“Because it sounded like you were talking to her like she’s beneath you,” Julian continues, tone still conversational, like he’s pointing out a minor inconvenience instead of quietly dismantling the situation. “And I’m trying to figure out why you’d think that’s a good idea.”
The table next to him goes silent.
The man shifts in his seat. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Great,” Julian says, nodding once. “Then we’re done here.”
There’s a pause. The kind that stretches just long enough to make the point land.
“Yeah,” the man says quickly. “Yeah, we’re done.”
“Perfect.”
Just like that. No raised voice, no scene, but the message is clear enough that even I feel it.
Julian turns back to me, and it’s like a switch flips.
The grin comes back. “Carry on.”
I stare at him. Because what… what just happened?
Behind him, table six has suddenly developed a deep interest in their napkin dispenser.
I turn, walk back toward the counter, set my notepad down very carefully like I’m handling something fragile.
Then I turn back. “What was that?”
Julian leans against the counter again, all ease and charm like he didn’t just step in front of me without hesitation. “That was me not enjoying his tone.”
“I can handle customers.”
“I know,” he says, not arguing it. “You were doing great. Very professional. Ten out of ten restraint.”
“That doesn’t mean you get to jump in.”
“Probably not.” Pause. “Still going to.”
I blink at him.
“Great,” I say. “Love that for me. Overbearing men. Perfect.”
I grab his burger from the pass and shove it toward him. “Eat your food.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And then you’re leaving.”
He picks up a fry, pauses, and looks at me like he’s about to ruin my entire evening. “We’re still going to the bookstore.”
I exhale. I should say no.
But the thing is, underneath all the arrogance and boundary issues, Julian makes being around him feel easy.
Loud. Ridiculous. Slightly dangerous to my peace of mind. But easy.
And after the kind of day I’ve had, easy feels a little bit like a lifeline, which is probably how women end up making terrible decisions around men like him.
He picks up another fry like he didn’t just step in front of an entire diner for me without hesitation.
“You’re buying the coffee,” I mutter.
Julian’s grin breaks wide. “That sounds dangerously close to a yes.”
“Don’t ruin it.”