Carter
Chapter eleven
The dinner rush was a blur of swinging kitchen doors and the smell of burnt grease, but for once, the chaos wasn't fast enough to drown out my own head.
Usually, when the ticket machine started screaming, everything else disappeared.
That was the deal. I gave this place my sanity, and in exchange, it gave me silence.
Not tonight. Every time I reached for a wire basket, my brain looped back to the campus. To the quiet of that room. To the way the air had felt too thick to breathe right before his mouth hit mine. It wasn't a memory I wanted to savor; it was a persistent, irritating hum under my skin.
I looked over. Gary was currently hunched over a customer’s lap, frantically scrubbing at a dark soda stain with a vigor that looked like he was trying to rub a hole through the guy’s khakis. "I am so, so sorry, sir—the tray just—the laws of physics, I swear—"
Gary was a walking disaster, but he was our disaster. I sighed. "Fine. I’ve got it."
I grabbed a stack of menus and pivoted toward the floor, but as I got within ten feet, the air left the room.
Dominic was there.
He sat dead center in the booth, staring at the tv in the corner like it held the secrets to the universe. He looked solitary, almost hauntingly so, and for a heartbeat, my feet stuttered. My brain simply went: Nope.
I didn't pause. I didn't even break my stride as I detoured, walking straight past the booth and through the swinging back doors into the kitchen.
The intensity of the line hit me, a wall of shouting cooks and sizzling metal.
I stood there for five seconds, staring at a bin of industrial-sized pickles, and scoffed at myself.
Really, Carter? I wasn’t about to hide in the back like a coward.
I didn't like the guy. So what if we kissed?
People kissed all the time. It didn't mean he owned the air I breathed or the floor I walked on.
To hide was to give him credit he hadn't earned.
I straightened my T-shirt, wiped my palms, and shoved the doors back open.
I was fine. I was indifferent. I was a professional—and professionals didn't let a lingering taste of something bitter and a string of bad decisions distract them from a dinner rush.
But as I stepped back onto the floor, the bell above the door gave a cheerful, mocking chime.
Sienna drifted in, a splash of silk and perfume that had no business being in a place where the primary scent was industrial floor cleaner.
She didn't even look at the "Wait to be Seated" sign; she walked straight to Dominic’s booth and slid in beside him.
Not across. Beside. Like she was pinning him to the vinyl.
My stomach did a weird, sharp flip—indigestion, surely. I didn’t care if he’d invited her or if she’d tracked his socials. It just felt like a personal insult to my workplace safety.
I grabbed my notebook and walked over with the slow, rhythmic stride of someone approaching a table of toddlers.
"Carter," Dominic said. His voice was that same low-frequency vibration that had been humming against my own skin hours ago. I chose to treat it like a background noise, like the hum of the refrigerator.
"That’s me," I said, clicking my pen. I didn't look at him. I looked at Sienna, who was currently examining her reflection in a spoon with an expression of deep tragedy. "Can I help you with something, or are we just practicing our brooding for the local theater?"
Sienna’s eyes flicked to me, narrowing as she took in my apron and the smudge of leftover ketchup on my forearm. She didn't reach for the menu.
"Do you have anything that’s organic, keto-friendly, and hasn't been within ten feet of a deep fryer?" she asked, her voice like honey-coated sandpaper.
I didn't even blink. "Water."
Sienna paused, her lip curling. "And for a main?"
"Ice," I replied flatly. "I can have the chef crack the cubes if you’re worried about the calories involved in chewing."
A sound came from Dominic. It wasn't a laugh—he didn't do anything as loud as a laugh— but his expression softened by a hair, and the corner of his mouth hitched up just a fraction of a millimeter. He was looking at his menu, but he was definitely enjoying the show.
Sienna didn't see the smile, but she felt the shift. She popped open a tube of lipstick, the click echoing in the booth. "He’s a little distracted tonight, aren't you, Dom? He barely heard a word I said in the car."
"Maybe it was the acoustics," I offered, finally meeting Dominic’s gaze. My eyes were bored, empty, and entirely lying through their teeth. "Sometimes the more expensive the car, the harder it is to hear the important stuff."
Dominic’s eyes sharpened. The smile vanished, replaced by that dark, alert intensity. The air between us felt suddenly pressurized, thick with the memory of that room on campus.
"I heard everything," Dominic said softly. He wasn't talking to Sienna.
"Great. Then you heard the part where the specials are on the board," I said, my voice rising into a fake, sugary pitch that felt like a slap. "I’ll give you two a minute. Or ten. Take your time—occupancy is free, though the dignity is extra."
I turned on my heel before I could see if that second comment earned another crack in his stone-faced composure. My heart was hammering, but my hands?
My hands were steady. Mostly.
I turned to leave, but the crowd at the door parted and a burst of genuine, easy energy cut through the thick smell of the fryer.
Luka.
Where Dominic was a dark corner of a room, Luka was the open window.
He moved through the diner with a loose, athletic grace, nodding to a regular and dodging a tray-laden Gary without breaking stride.
When his eyes caught mine, he didn't look like he was analyzing my soul—he just looked happy to be there.
"Hey!" he called out, heading toward the counter.
I felt a wave of relief. This was what I needed.
Not more heavy silences or lips that felt like a challenge, but someone who spoke a language I actually understood.
"Luka," I said, meeting him halfway. I leaned against the bar counter, finally feeling my shoulders drop an inch.
"Please tell me you’re here to order the most expensive thing on the menu and tip me in gold bars. "
"Best I can do is a burger and a decent conversation," Luka said, hopping onto a stool.
He didn't crowd me; he just leaned back on his elbows, his presence comfortable and light.
He reached out and gave my ponytail a playful, tug—the kind of touch that was easy to miss if you weren't looking for it.
"You look like you’ve been running marathons. Everything okay?"
"The kitchen is a disaster and I think Gary is still trying to dissolve a customer’s pants with soda water," I muttered, brushing a stray hair from my face. "But honestly? I'll take the chaos. It’s better than the alternative."
Luka’s expression softened into something a bit more focused, his eyes searching mine. "Is it? Because I saw the car outside. I figured the atmosphere in here might be a little... pressurized."
"He’s being himself," I said, glancing back at the general area. "Which is to say, he’s currently a permanent fixture in the booth section. I don't suppose you want to sit with them and be the buffer?"
Luka made a face, a genuine, boyish grin that made me chuckle. "And ruin my peaceful night? Not a chance. I’d much rather stay here and see if I can convince the prettiest waitress in the city to actually take my order for once."
I rolled my eyes, missing the way his eyes lingered on my smile. "Flattery won't get you your fries any faster."
The silence didn't just settle; it pressed in like pressure behind glass.
"Luka. Didn't know you were slumming it tonight."
Dominic was suddenly there. He didn't just walk up; he occupied the space, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his shoulders a rigid line.
He looked restless, like an animal that had just realized its cage door was unlocked.
Behind him, Sienna was still at the booth, her expression souring as she watched the three of us from a distance.
Luka didn't move away, but his posture shifted, becoming a little more protective. "Just grabbin' a bite, Dom. Didn't realize this was a private club."
Dominic’s eyes flashed to the counter, his focus lingering on the inches of space between Luka’s arm and mine before settling on me. "The service here is non-existent," he snapped. The words were sharp, designed to cut through the easy air Luka had brought with him.
Beside me, Luka didn't miss a beat. He leaned back on his stool, a lazy, amused grin spreading across his face. "Really? I’ve never had an issue. In fact, I was just thinking the service is the best part of the place."
I felt a spark of wicked satisfaction. I turned my head slowly toward Dominic, matching Luka’s energy with a sharp, sugar-coated smile of my own. "Is that so? Well, if Luka’s happy and the rest of the diner is fed, I suppose the problem must be specific to your table. Maybe it’s the company."
Dominic’s jaw ticked—a rhythmic, violent pulse of frustration.
He looked like he wanted to argue the physics of how long a person should wait to order, but he caught himself.
He looked at Luka, then back to me, his shoulders sharp.
Like he’d never had to sit still long enough for something he wanted to not show up immediately.
"I would like to order," he said, the words sounding like they were being squeezed out of him.
"Oh, you’re ready now?" I clicked my pen with another rhythmic, annoying snap. "I thought you were still busy with the... atmosphere. What can I get for you? Besides a better attitude, obviously. We’re all out of that tonight."
Luka let out a soft, huffed laugh, and I saw Dominic’s eyes darken. He was vibrating with a silent, frustrated energy, but he didn't retreat.
"The special. No onions," he clipped out, his voice tight. "And..."
He paused, casting a look back at the booth that was less about concern and more about pure, unfiltered annoyance.
Sienna was sitting perfectly still, one hand pressed flat against her stomach while she stared at the napkin dispenser like it had personally offended her.
She looked pale, her usual poise replaced by a rigid, fragile sort of tension.
Dominic turned back to me, his expression hardening into a look of dry, biting irritation.
"Sienna’s decided the smell of the grill is a personal attack on her nervous system," he said, his voice dripping with enough sarcasm to coat the floor.
He didn't lower his voice; he didn't seem to care if she heard him or not.
"Bring her a club soda. Heavy on the lime.
Apparently, the tap water isn't 'filtered' enough to settle her drama. "
I raised an eyebrow, my pen hovering over the pad. "A club soda? Are you sure? I thought she only drank the tears of her enemies."
Luka let out a sharp bark of a laugh, and Dominic’s eyes flicked to him—cold and warning—before landing back on me.
"Just bring the drink," Dominic said. He didn't say please. He said it like an ultimatum, his eyes boring into mine as if challenging me to make one more joke. "Before she decides the oxygen in here is too 'greasy' for her to breathe."
"Sensitive to grease in a diner," I repeated, scribbling Club/Lime/ASAP on my pad. "Bold choice of venue on your part, then. Or did you just pick this place because you knew it would make her miserable?"
Dominic didn't flinch this time. He leaned in just an inch, his presence suddenly heavy, pushing aside the light energy Luka had built up.
"I picked it because I had a craving I couldn't get rid of," Dominic said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous frequency that made the hair on my arms stand up. "Her being miserable is just a side effect of not taking a hint."
He didn't wait for a rebuttal. He turned away, his back a hard, unyielding line as he retreated toward the booth.
I stared at his back for a second too long.
My brain tried to loop back to the afternoon, but I cut the thought off before it could take root.
He couldn't have meant it like that. Men like Dominic didn’t have "cravings" for females in grease-stained T-shirts.
He was just being cryptic because he liked the sound of his own voice.
"Wow," Luka whistled softly beside me. "He’s really working on his people skills, huh?"
"He’s something," I muttered, finally tearing my eyes away to grab the soda gun.
"A craving, though?" Luka shook his head. "I know this is the best spot nearby, but my brother usually lives on green juice and discipline. I didn't think a specialty burger could drag him out here on a weeknight."
I felt a faint jolt climb my neck, but I brushed it off. "Maybe he just wanted to prove he could survive the cholesterol," I said, my voice steadying.
I focused on Luka, trying to anchor myself in his easy energy.
"So," I said, glancing at him like I already knew the answer, "A burger? Or are you feeling 'sensitive' tonight, too?"
Luka grinned, his eyes sparking as he glanced from me to the scowling version of his brother across the room. "You know what? Screw it. I’ll take the special, too." He gave a small nod, like he’d just made an executive decision. "And keep the onions on mine. I can handle a little bite. He can’t.”
I managed a genuine laugh, the tension in my chest loosening just a fraction. "One burger with extra baggage, coming up."
I didn’t have to look to know Dominic was back in his booth. I focused on the glass in my hand, watching it fill like it required my full attention. I didn’t care. That was the point.
But as I reached for the fruit to top Sienna’s glass, the lime felt heavy in my hand.