Chapter 2
Summer
Have I suddenly transported to some alternate universe where cute guys help out at the diner? The one who’d flashed an American Express card earlier is walking around refilling coffee and the one with the gorgeous blue eyes is bussing his own table.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say quickly.
He chuckles. “I know. But what else are we going to do? We can’t go anywhere until this storm settles down, so we might as well make ourselves useful.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I default to being polite. “Uhh… Well, thank you. I’ve got it from here.”
He arches one brow and looks around as two more guys come in, tracking more mud all over the floor.
“Why don’t you show me where the mop is,” he says solemnly.
I want to say no, but I’m incredibly grateful for the help.
I can’t remember the last time it was this busy on a night I was working by myself.
I’m guessing that a lot of these truckers would’ve just kept driving if not for the storm.
Instead, they’re hanging out here, taking advantage of the unlimited coffee refills.
“Are you sure?” I ask Blue Eyes.
“Absolutely.”
“Come on, then.” I lead him to the back hallway and point at the industrial-sized mop and rolling bucket.
“Knock yourself out,” I say with a chuckle.
“I’m on it.” He whistles as he rolls the bucket toward the front door.
The next hour is busy, but around four in the morning things finally settle down. Most of the truckers have either left or gone to their trucks for a nap, and no one that’s left is ordering food.
One of my regulars heads for the front door pausing to call over his shoulder, “Goin’ to get some shuteye, Summer. If you need to take a nap or anything, you know which truck is mine. Feel free to join me.”
“Sure thing, Roscoe,” I smile sweetly, wiggling my phone at him. “Right after I call Martha and ask her if it’s okay.”
His ears turn red and he shrugs as the room fills with laughter. “Hey, ya can’t blame a guy for tryin’.”
“How many times a night do you hear a line like that?” Blue Eyes, who told me his name is Tate, asks quietly.
“At least a dozen,” I reply with a shrug. “I’m used to it.”
“You shouldn’t have to get used to being harassed,” he says.
Who is this guy?
“Were you raised by nuns?” I ask, cocking my head.
He laughs. “Nuns?”
“Well, yeah. You’re cute, helpful, and have manners. I can’t even remember the last time I met a guy with those traits.”
“No nuns,” he says. “Just parents who were very strict about manners.”
“Well, the next time you talk to them, tell them how much I appreciate them raising a nice man.”
He smiles, his eyes meeting mine. “I’m sure my mom will appreciate hearing it.”
Just then, there’s a crack of thunder loud enough to shake the whole building and a second later, the electricity goes out.
“Son of a bitch,” I mutter.
“This night just keeps getting better and better,” Tate says, shaking his head.
“I think that’s my cue to get some sleep,” one of the truckers calls out. “Money’s on the counter, Summer.”
“Kitchen is officially closed.” Brent comes out of the kitchen with his hands on his hips.
“All right, everybody,” I yell. “I need you to settle up. Any credit cards I’ll have to run by hand, unless the lights come back up sometime soon.”
There’s a flurry of activity for the next fifteen minutes as I make change and write down credit card numbers.
By five o’clock the place is empty except for me, Brent, Tate, and his friends.
Angus, the one who was refilling coffee earlier, pulls two hundred dollar bills out of his wallet and hands them to me.
“Don’t worry about the change,” he says.
“Oh, no! That’s too much,” I protest. “Especially since you guys were so helpful tonight.”
He waves a hand. “Nah… It’s my good deed for the day.”
“Is it okay if we hang out for a while, though?” Tate asks quietly. “We’ve been trying to get an Uber for over an hour and there’s nothing.”
“You’ll be lucky to get an Uber around here when there’s no storm. Forget about it in this kind of weather.” I shake my head. “And sure, you can hang out as long as you like.”
I look around the diner, taking in the dirty tables and disaster of a counter and let out a little sigh.
Nothing I can do about that now, since the dishwasher won’t work without electricity.
Luckily, I washed a load of silverware before the lights went out so at least I can roll it before the breakfast crew arrives.
“I’m gonna go roll silverware,” I say to Tate. “So make yourselves at home.”
“Can I help?” Tate asks, following me as I walk towards the back.
I glance over my shoulder. “You want to help me roll silverware?”
“Sure,” he says. “It gives me an excuse to talk to you some more.”
Butterflies flutter through my stomach, and I can’t help but smile. “I’m not that interesting,” is all I say.
“Let me be the judge of that,” he says.
It’s really dark back here, the only illumination coming from one of the small emergency lights by the stockroom. Suddenly, a beam of light appears in front of me and I realize Tate has turned on his phone’s flashlight.
He really is nice.
And thoughtful.
And hot.
I open the dishwasher and pull out the tray of silverware.
“Here, let me grab that.” Tate reaches around me and takes it out of my hands.
Normally I would bristle at the insinuation that I can’t carry it myself, but for some reason it doesn’t bother me when Tate does it. I can tell it’s simply part of who he is.
“Thank you,” I say again. “Let’s just bring it into the main dining room, since there’s more light in there.”
“Okey dokey.” He follows me and sets the tray down on the counter.
I reach down, grab a big stack of napkins and put them on the counter next to the tray. “This is how we do it.” I open a napkin and angle a fork, spoon, and butter knife in the middle. I fold up the sides and then roll the whole thing until it’s a nice, neat package.
“Looks simple enough,” Tate says, grabbing a napkin and mimicking my movements.
He folds it perfectly and sets the rolled silverware next to mine.
Is there anything this guy can’t do?
“Perfect,” I say. “You’re hired!”
He laughs. “Well, I have to be in Montreal by Tuesday night, but you’ve got me till then.”
“What’s in Montreal?”
“Our next gig.”
“So, you’re a musician?”
“Yep. I play guitar for a band called Crimson Edge.”
I chew my lip thoughtfully. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of you. But to be fair, I listen to country more than anything else. I’m guessing you’re a rock band?”
“Yes, and it’s fine that you’ve never heard of us. There’s lots of different music for different tastes.”
“I’m guessing Angus and the others are the rest of the band?”
“Yup. Except Bart—he’s our bus driver. Angus is our drummer, Mick is our bass player, Sam is our other guitar player, and Johnny’s the lead singer.”
I nod. “And you’re on tour?”
“We played in Albany last night and were making the drive to Montreal when the bus broke down.”
“Oh, that sucks.”
“We were supposed to have Sunday and Monday off to enjoy Montreal, but now I don’t know what the hell’s gonna happen. I was really looking forward to sleeping in a bed instead of my bunk on the bus.”
“You don’t know how you’re getting to Montreal?”
“When the bus broke down, Bart called dispatch and they said because of the storm they wouldn’t be able to get anyone out there before Sunday afternoon. We tried to get an Uber, but since we couldn’t find any, we hoofed it here.”
“There are plenty of hotels in Glens Falls,” I say, watching as he matches me roll-for-roll of silverware.
“Assuming we can get there,” he says.
“I’d offer to drive you, but my car’s not big enough for all of you.”
“What do you drive?” He asks.
“A ’69 Mustang.”
“If there wasn’t a fucking hurricane going on outside, I’d ask to go see it,” he says.
“If you’re still here when the rain lets up, I’ll be happy to show her to you.” I pause. “It’s my mom’s car, but she doesn’t drive anymore.”
“How come?” he asks curiously.
I hesitate. I hate talking about my mom’s health situation because it’s so depressing. But it would be rude not to answer. “She has early onset Alzheimer’s.”
His face softens. “Oh honey, I’m so sorry. I have a friend back home going through this with his grandma, and it’s a tough disease.”
I nod. “Where’s home?”
“A suburb of Minneapolis.”
“My college roommate was from St. Paul,” I say, glad to talk about something other than my mom.
“Where’d you go to college?”
“Syracuse. I majored in photography, but that dream fell apart when my mom got sick.”
“Did you graduate?” he asks.
“Yes, but when I got home that summer Mom got her diagnosis and there was just no way I could leave her.” I lift my shoulders. “Aren’t you glad you asked?”
“Hey.” He puts a big warm hand over mine, squeezing gently. “There’s no shame in putting aside your dreams to take care of someone you love. I worked a lot of shitty jobs to pay the bills until we got this record deal.”
As I look into his eyes, I can’t remember the last time it was so easy to talk to someone.
“It’s been tough,” I admit. “But generally speaking, this isn’t a shitty job. The owner, Dolly, pays us well and tips are usually good. I also bake pies that she sells here, so I make extra money that way too.”
He arches a brow. “Wait—there’s pie?”
I laugh. “Well, not anymore. We’re sold out.”
“That’s not fair.”
“If you’re still in town later today. I’ll bake some fresh ones this afternoon and you’re welcome to a piece on the house.”
“I don’t think we’re going anywhere any time soon,” he says, looking out at the storm.
He has a point. “Yeah. I don’t know how the hell I’m gonna drive home if this doesn’t let up soon.”
“I’m happy to drive you if you’re nervous in this weather, and then I can just get an Uber from your place.”
He offered to drive me home.
Because of the storm.
Why is the thought of him coming home with me incredibly appealing?