Chapter 21 Landon
LANDON
I woke up surrounded by peace.
For the first time in I didn’t know how long, I wasn’t waking up with a knot in my chest or a to-do list choking the air from my lungs.
No restless pacing over my future, no wondering if I’d already screwed things up with Kira beyond repair.
Just the soft light filtering in through the curtain and the steady rhythm of her breathing beside me.
Despite the bumps last night, everything was perfect. Okay, maybe not perfect, but I was confident we would figure everything out. The diner’s opening. Kira’s art residency application. They all felt like obstacles I could take on with Kira by my side.
I had been terrified of losing her for those excruciating minutes. She was right to confront me about the job interview. Stupid of me to keep it hidden in the first place, but I had been blinded by fear and confusion.
Kira’s naked body curled into mine, bringing me into the present. The warmth and comfort she brought suffused me, and I rested my head above hers. I pressed a kiss to her hairline, letting the scent of her shampoo sink into me.
“What time is it?” she mumbled, her voice barely audible, muffled by the pillow.
I turned toward the nightstand. “Eight on the dot.”
She groaned and stretched, arms reaching overhead, nearly smacking me in the temple.
“Careful.” I caught her wrist with a lazy grin. “I’ve survived heartbreak and kitchen disasters. Don’t let me go down via sleepy girlfriend’s elbow.”
She grinned, eyes still mostly closed. “I haven’t slept this late in forever.”
“You think eight is late?” I arched my brow. “Who hurt you?”
“Try waking up at six every morning for cycling class and then ask me that.” She rubbed her eyes.
I blinked at her. Six a.m. cycling class? That was painfully different from me, someone who believed in hitting snooze six times.
That would be fun to navigate when we lived together.
Whoa. Where the hell did that thought come from? We had only been dating again for a few weeks.
“Well, at least neither of us has to work today,” I said. “I was just going to check in with Mom at the diner to make sure everything’s set for the soft opening.”
At that, Kira lifted herself into a sitting position, holding the white sheets above her breasts. It made her look like one of the angels Michelangelo carved.
“Oh my God. It’s almost time for the soft opening. It’s almost December,” she said loudly, sounding nothing less than bamboozled by the realization. “What? How?”
“There’s this thing,” I said slowly, “called time. It keeps moving forward. You might’ve heard of it.”
She ignored the sarcasm, already tossing the blankets off and digging through the pile of our clothes on the floor. “No, I know, I’m just surprised. I didn’t realize how quickly it snuck up.”
I sat up, watching her half-dressed scramble with amused disbelief. “Are you racing a clock I don’t know about?”
“Yes. Kind of.” She hopped into her leggings but tugged one of my hoodies over her head in record time. “It’s the end of November. Which means I have one week left to submit my art residency application.”
Ah. There it was.
The panic. The urgency. The weight of all the dreams she’d only recently started letting herself believe in again.
“What about your third piece?” I asked as I stood, attempting to tame my hair. “Did you start it?”
She had finished her second piece, the one that she started with her parents back in Wisconsin. Despite her claims that it wasn’t perfect, I thought it was amazing. I supposed that was one of the ways art imitated life, though. Its subjective nature meant perfection wasn’t attainable.
She paused by the bedroom doorway, one hand on the frame. “Not yet, but I’ve got a few ideas. Nothing concrete.”
Fully clothed, Kira retreated to the kitchen. I, like the lovesick puppy I was, pulled on a pair of sweatpants and followed. She poured a glass of water from the pitcher, downed it immediately, then refilled it.
“Sorry.” She bumped the fridge door closed with her hip. “When I get stressed, I get thirsty.”
“There are worse vices. You could’ve picked up cocaine.”
She snorted, wiping condensation off the glass with the pad of her thumb. “Thanks. That actually made me feel better.”
“Glad I could help.” I stepped closer and wrapped my arms around her. She let herself lean into me, warm and solid and right where she belonged.
“I’m going to have to lock myself in my apartment for the next twenty-four hours if I want any chance of finishing this thing,” she said, voice softer now, a little more centered.
“Do what you need to do, Picasso,” I murmured, brushing a kiss against her temple. “I’ll drop you off on the way to the diner.”
She tilted her head up to look at me. “Thanks, Landon.”
The bell above the door jingled as I stepped into the diner. Mason’s Diner looked good. Really good. Warm white walls, dark green booths we’d reupholstered ourselves, clean lines, vintage signage, completed mural. It smelled like lemon cleaner, a trace of paint, and something vaguely buttery.
In ten days, the soft opening would bring in our first real customers. A trial run. Nothing wild. Still, everything needed to go smoothly.
“Mom?” I called out.
No answer. But something metal clanged in the back. Hard.
I walked toward the kitchen and nudged open the swinging door.
And there she was.
Flour on her hands, hair barely contained in a frizzed-out bun, glasses slipping down her nose.
She stood in the middle of the chaos like a general in the middle of a war she wasn’t winning.
Her phone buzzed on the counter nonstop, her clipboard was streaked with sauce, and the stove was hissing like it might start a mutiny.
“Oh good,” she muttered when she saw me, not even pausing. “Unless you brought a trained kitchen staff in your back pocket, I don’t have a minute to spare.”
“Nice to see you too.” I stepped around a half-unpacked produce box. “You look like you’re thriving.”
“I’m unraveling,” she snapped. “The exact opposite of thriving. Tanya just bailed with the flu for the next two weeks. Marcus is still in Florida because his cousin’s wedding apparently turned into a hostage situation.
I’m down two people and I’ve got customers coming in days, expecting food and charm and a diner that lives up to its history. ”
She spun toward the stove and yelped at something in the big silver pot that was starting to boil over.
I jumped forward and pulled the pot off the burner before it made a full mess. “I got it.”
“Thanks,” she mumbled, pushing her glasses up. Her hands were shaking slightly. She didn’t look at me. “I should’ve delayed the opening to next year. What was I thinking?”
I studied her. My mom was a lot of things—scrappy, relentless, sharp as a damn tack.
But I’d only seen her truly rattled like this twice before.
Once was the week my dad died. The second was when she got a call about a car accident my brother was in.
And now, the damn diner. The dream she’d built from scraps and lawyers and sheer will.
“You were thinking this was our shot,” I said gently. “And you’re right. It still is.”
She shook her head. “Not with half the staff gone. The produce order was short. I don’t even have the POS system fully programmed. I’m not ready.”
“Well, good thing you’re not doing it alone.”
Her eyes flicked up. “You mean for the soft opening or later? Because I thought this was a temporary thing. You were just helping me launch.”
I hesitated. She wasn’t wrong. That had been the plan. Help her get the place off the ground, then figure out what was next for me both job-wise and life-wise. But plans change. People change.
“I meant both. I’m here for it all. I want to work in the kitchen full time. I’ve spent all my free time experimenting with new recipes, and I know the menu better than anyone.”
Mom’s hand fluttered to her chest like she was physically trying to hold her heart in place. “You’re serious?”
I nodded. “Yeah. I’m serious.”
She crossed the floor and pulled me into a hug so tight it knocked the air out of me. “Your dad would be so proud,” she whispered against my shoulder. “And so am I.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
She pulled back, brushing at her cheeks with the heel of her hand and laughing a little. “There’s still so much to do.”
“It’ll work out,” I assured her. “I can get the produce we need. We’ll recruit some temporary help to serve and bus tables. Maybe we can get Liam to come for a few days to run charm so you don’t accidentally throttle someone.”
That got the smallest smile from her. A crack in the storm cloud.
I leaned against the prep table, eyes sweeping the kitchen. We were missing boxes. Some of the labels weren’t even peeled off the new appliances yet. A whole shelf of plates still needed washing. “It’s just a soft opening. It doesn’t have to be perfect.”
She let out a shaky breath and leaned on the counter, like the weight of everything had finally caught up to her. “God, I miss your dad. He’d know what to do. He thrived in chaos.”
“I remember,” I said quietly. “No one will expect the diner to be perfect on day one, Mom.”
“I just want to make him proud.”
“You already have.” I pushed off the counter and found an apron hanging on the hook. “Look, I’ll help you finish today’s setup. I’ll even do dishes and not complain.”
Mom gave me a look. “You always complain about dishes.”
“Yeah, but I’ll do it silently this time. See? Growth.” I grinned and tied the apron around my waist. “This is going to work out.”
She didn’t say anything right away. Then she crossed the kitchen and pulled me into a one-armed hug. “Have I ever told you that you’re just like your dad?”
“Not exactly.”
She squeezed the hand on my shoulder. “Well, you really are your father’s kid. The best parts. It was hard for me, for a bit, to see them in you. But they make me happy now.”
I swallowed the knot in my throat. “Me too.”