Chapter Three
Alice
Everyone knows that the back corner booth is the best seat in the house. Not only do you get a full view of the diner and all who enter, you get a straight-on look at the snowcapped mountains that rise at the end of the street.
I swear, there’s no place like home. Sure, San Francisco is nice, but this exact spot, at this exact diner, with my favorite waitress walking toward me… this is perfection.
Perfection with a side of cranberry pancakes.
I haven’t had cranberry pancakes since last winter.
They’re a seasonal staple here that tastes like fluffy, cinnamon-spiced goodness with a splash of tart on the back end.
I’ve tried making them at home, but I can’t get the crispy edges, and everyone knows the buttery crisp edges are imperative to a good pancake.
“I’ve missed seeing your face, Alice!” Betty Lynn, the diner’s oldest and most cherished waitress, sets a Coke down on the table for me before I’ve even ordered it. “I’ve also missed your accents. Are you working on anything new lately?”
I grin wide, happy to be seen somewhere as a regular again. I hadn’t realized how much I loved living in a small town until I left. In San Francisco, I’m just another face. Here, I’m Alice, the girl with quirky accents and an over the top passion for seasonal pancakes.
“Why yes, I have, Betty Lynn. This is my rich southern lady accent. Think… Scarlette O’Hara in Gone with the Wind except I’m not as self-centered.”
She raises her thick gray brows as she taps her pen against her notepad thoughtfully, then beams. “I reckon it’s the best I ever heard. How ya been? What can I get ya?”
I grin wide as she speaks to me in her own version of southern. “I’m good! The Chronicle is… fun, and I’d like the cranberry pancakes.”
She jots down my order and then lands her weathered hand on my shoulder. “And how’s your heart?”
“If you’re talking about my love life… it’s a mess.” My smile widens. “What about you? You seeing anyone lately?”
She blows a strand of silver hair from her vision. “You know me, I can’t be tied down to one man. Plus, at this age, they all need to be taken care of. I’m over taking care of men.”
The faint sweetness of pies melds with the scent of bacon and coffee already filling the space. “I think you’ve got some solid advice there, Ms. Betty!”
“Life is much more entertaining this way. The best part is when they know about each other and they start fighting.” She shimmies her shoulders. “It’s so exciting to see two old men get up off their hind ends.”
“To fight for your love?”
“No,” she laughs. “It’s just exciting to see them get up!”
We laugh together for a moment, and all at once, my heart is full. This is what I needed. I needed a sense of community, a sense of home.
“Ya know,” she continues, “I got thinking about you the other day and tried a Canadian accent for fun, but I couldn’t get the vowel shifts right.”
“Same! I can’t get that one down.” I shrug. “I guess I’m just a soft little southern belle at heart.”
Betty nods toward me when the bell above the diner door catches our attention.
“Oh, shit!” I scream as I slide beneath the table like it’s 1952 and an atomic bomb is on its way.
Betty’s loafer-covered feet shuffle back before she dips down to check on me, her long silver hair falling to the side as she stares. “Do southern belles usually scream ‘shit’ and duck under the table before lunch, or is this on account of Wyatt being here?”
I search through the catalog of lies in my head, hoping to find one that fits this very scenario, but nothing comes to mind fast enough.
“The blood is rushing to my head, sweetheart. You wanna tell me what’s going on?”
I drag in a deep breath and blow it out quickly. “I haven’t seen Wyatt since I got back. I don’t know if I’m ready yet. And… why does he have to look so good?”
“He always looks that good. The boy has Davis genes. All those men look like they were carved by the Lord, while the Devil made their personalities.” The end of her sentence trails off as she stands, and I’m left under the table with a scarf someone left behind and two long-lost French fries that have some kind of sticky substance holding them together.
At least I know I’ll be warm and fed should I decide to live beneath this booth for the rest of eternity.
“Well, hello there, handsome!” Betty steps away from the table and shuffles toward who I can only assume is Wyatt. “Haven’t seen you in for a spell. What can I get ya?”
No! No! No!
Don’t seat him! Tell him the ovens are all broken. Tell him there’s a gas leak. Tell him there’s a bomb in the bathroom. ‘What can I get ya’ implies we want him to stay.
We don’t want him to stay. We want him to leave now!
I peek out from under my table fort to see she’s sitting him on the opposite side of the diner with his back to my booth.
Okay, that’s something. I’m definitely not getting cranberry pancakes, but I will get a straight shot out of this place without running into the one man I can’t see today.
Sure, I have big news to tell him, but not now.
Definitely not now. I still need to think about what I’ll say, how I’ll say it, what words I’ll use, and in what order I’ll use them.
His big boots stomp across the floor and it does absolutely nothing to me sexually at all. Why would it? It’s not like women are attracted to the brawny, heavy footsteps of a big, strong man or anything.
That’s ridiculous! Women are attracted to men for much more complex reasons than how big he is. His brain, his ability to process emotions, his work ethic, his—
My gaze draws upward toward his ass. My God, that man can really wear a pair of jeans!
My heart’s hammering against my chest when I notice Betty frantically waving her hands behind her back in my direction as though it’s my cue to run.
I slide up from under the table, desperate to get out of the diner that I so desperately couldn’t wait to get into, though it seems the diner has other plans for me.
I’m almost on my feet when my favorite red jacket snags on something, creating resistance as I try to crawl out from the tiny little fortress I’ve sunken into.
What the hell?
I tug harder, my heart pounding as Betty waves more frantically. I don’t know what the speed of her hands has to do with anything, but it’s making me feel like Wyatt’s about to turn around.
I whip back into my fort quickly, looking to see what’s got hold of my jacket, but the space is small and I can’t get to the corner I need to get to.
Oh my God. Only me. This could only happen to me.
“Alice?” Wyatt’s deep voice reverberates through me, sending my stomach and my heart straight to the floor. “Is that you?”
He’s not sure yet. Maybe I should try for southern belle again and see if he falls for it. Clearly, I’ve got the demeanor down.
I glance back toward the light and see the massive work boots making their way toward me.
This is all some sick game from the universe. I can feel it.
Why else would the one man I’m trying to avoid be here to find me chained beneath the diner table I love… loved so much?
“Hey.” The greeting gets caught in my throat and sounds more like a frog than a person. “Yeah. Just, ugh…” I’ve got nothing.
“You drop something?” He squats down to peek under the table, the scent of pine and cedar following him like a drug I’m not supposed to be enjoying.
“Yes!” My eyes brighten as I reach back for the scarf that was left under the table. “I thought it was gone for good.”
He narrows his gaze. “You big into Frozen these days?”
Frozen? My face preemptively heats before I glance down to confirm that the scarf I’m pretending to have lost is indeed an Olaf scarf with snowflakes and ice princesses printed all over it.
God help me!
“Ugh,” I stutter, unsure of what to say, “I got stuck down here.”
“You try unzipping your jacket?”
I stare toward him like a deer in headlights. Like a cartoon cat with giant eyes. Like a shocked clown with a painted smile.
My zipper. Why did I not think to unzip my zipper?
He leans in and pulls the zipper down for me, his big hands warm without a single touch to my skin.
My clit throbs and my heart kicks into overdrive.
No… not now. Why now?
I will every sensation to go away. I can’t get like this. I can’t get all horny and desperate. I can’t let hormones make decisions for me. I’m supposed to be a grown woman, someone’s mother. I can’t run around with a throbbing clit and the scent of desperation dripping off me.
It’s unbecoming.
Finally free from my cozy red jacket, Wyatt takes my hand in his and helps me out from under the booth. “What are you doing here, peach? Town this small, I thought I’d have heard you were back.”
Peach. My heart squeezes. I’ve missed him calling me peach. He gave me the name not long after we met. At first, he told me the name was a symbol of how sweet I am, but he later confessed that it also had to do with how round and perfect my ass is.
I don’t agree with him, but I always feel special when he says it. Even now, when he shouldn’t be saying it.
That’s one thing I always loved about Wyatt. He makes me feel like the only woman in the world. Like, there’s not a chance in hell he’d ever been or ever would be attracted to another woman.
If only he hadn’t gambled thousands of dollars away without telling me, we might still be together.
I swallow hard and stare at him, hanging onto his hand far too long. “I came to visit a friend. Umm… what about you?”
He tilts his head to the side, and I realize suddenly that my stomach is uncovered. I don’t have a huge bump yet. In fact, most people probably wouldn’t notice I was pregnant, but the fear of him noticing overwhelms the urge to continue on with the weird hand-hold thing we have going on.
“I live here.” He laughs under his breath and leans forward, brushing a sticky French fry off my jeans.
Awesome. This is going great.