Chapter 8
The restaurant supply warehouse smelled like industrial cleaner and possibility.
Time for an upgrade.
She found what she needed in the commercial section—a stainless steel unit with a three-minute cycle and a warranty that actually meant something. Expensive, but worth it. The diner couldn't afford to lose another busy dinner service to equipment failure.
The salesman tried to talk her into a more expensive model with features she didn't need. Amy smiled, declined, and paid cash for the one she'd chosen.
Her diner. Her decision.
The hardware store was next.
Amy filled her cart with deadbolt locks, drill bits, mounting hardware. The back door's original lock was forty years old—her aunt had never bothered to upgrade it, trusting the neighborhood and her own stubborn presence to keep trouble away.
Times had changed.
The clerk raised an eyebrow at her purchases. "Big project?"
"Security upgrade."
"Want us to send someone out for the installation? We've got a guy who does residential and commercial."
"I can handle it."
She paid cash again and loaded everything into her Camry. The drive to the diner took fifteen minutes through Fayetteville traffic, past the strip malls and fast food chains that lined Bragg Boulevard.
By noon, she was on her knees in the back hallway, drill in hand.
The first deadbolt went in easier than expected. She'd watched her aunt do this kind of work a hundred times, had helped with similar projects since she was old enough to hold a screwdriver. The motions came back like muscle memory—measure, mark, drill, fit.
The office door was trickier. The frame was older, the wood softer, and she had to reinforce the strike plate with longer screws to make it hold.
But she did it.
Both locks installed, both doors secured, her hands only a little scraped from wrestling with stubborn hardware.
Trauma arrived at two.
Amy heard his bike before she saw him—the distinctive rumble of a Harley engine cutting through the afternoon quiet.
She was standing on a step stool behind the diner, holding a motion-sensor light against the wall and trying to figure out how to mark the mounting holes while also holding the fixture steady.
"Need a hand?"
She looked down. He stood at the base of the step stool, arms crossed, watching her struggle with an expression that might have been amusement.
"I've got it."
"You've been holding that light for five minutes."
"I'm thinking."
"About what?"
"How to mark the holes without dropping the fixture."
He climbed up beside her on the step stool—which really wasn't built for two people, but he didn't seem to care about that. His shoulder pressed against hers as he took the light from her hands.
"Hold this." He passed her a pencil. "Mark while I hold."
She should argue. Should insist she could do this herself, the way she'd done everything herself for the past two years.
Instead, she marked the holes while he held the fixture steady.
"Drill's on the ground," she said when she finished.
"I'll get it."
He climbed down, retrieved the drill, and was back beside her before she could protest. The holes went in quick—clean, precise, exactly where she'd marked them. The fixture mounted in under a minute.
"You've done this before," she said.
"Once or twice."
"Military?"
"Among other things." He tested the motion sensor, waving his hand in front of it until the light clicked on. "Field medicine doesn't leave a lot of time for permanent installations. But I learned."
"Why'd you leave?"
The question came out before she could stop it. Too personal. Too probing. The kind of thing you didn't ask a man you'd known for less than two weeks.
But he answered anyway.
"Lost someone I shouldn't have." His voice was steady, matter-of-fact. "Helicopter was sixty seconds late. I needed sixty-one."
"I'm sorry."
"It was a long time ago."
He climbed down from the step stool and offered her his hand. She took it, letting him steady her as she descended.
His grip was warm. Strong. The split knuckles had started to heal, but she could still see the damage underneath.
"Thank you," she said. "For the help."
"Anytime."
The kitchen needed reorganizing.
Amy had been thinking about this for months—the prep stations were laid out wrong, the workflow inefficient, too much wasted motion between cutting and cooking. Her aunt had arranged things her way thirty years ago, and nobody had questioned it since.
Time to question it.
She started moving cutting boards, repositioning the prep table, rearranging the pan storage so the most-used items were within easy reach. Trauma watched from the pass-through window, occasionally handing her things when she asked.
"What's wrong with how it was?" he asked.
"Nothing was wrong. It's just not right for me." She hung a skillet on the new hook she'd installed. "My aunt was left-handed. I'm right-handed. Everything's positioned for someone reaching with the opposite arm."
"You never changed it?"
"It felt wrong. Like I was erasing her." Amy stepped back, surveying her work. "But she wouldn't want me working harder than I have to. She was practical that way."
"Sounds like you."
"I learned from the best."
She made two more adjustments—moving the spice rack, repositioning the knife block—and stepped back again. Better. Cleaner. A kitchen that finally fit the way she worked.
"Now it's mine," she said quietly.
Trauma didn't respond. But when she looked up, he was watching her with an expression she couldn't quite read.
Something that looked almost like hunger.
Dinner service was slow.
Tuesday nights always were—the weekend rush had faded, the weekday regulars hadn't hit their rhythm yet. Amy found herself with more downtime than usual, and a man at her counter who'd been there for three hours without complaint.
"You should eat something," she said.
"I'm fine."
"You've had six cups of coffee and no food since you got here."
"I ate this morning."
"That was twelve hours ago." She picked up a menu and dropped it in front of him. "Order something or I'll pick for you."
He looked at the menu, then at her. That steady gaze that saw more than it should.
"What do you recommend?"
"The meatloaf. My aunt's recipe."
"Then I'll have the meatloaf."
She cooked it herself—not because Maria couldn't handle it, but because she wanted to. Something about feeding him felt important in ways she didn't want to examine too closely.
The meatloaf came with mashed potatoes and green beans, the same way her aunt had served it for thirty years. She set the plate in front of him and watched him take the first bite.
"Good?"
"Best I've ever had."
"You're just saying that."
"I'm not." He took another bite, then another. "Where'd your aunt learn to cook like this?"
"Her mother. And her mother before that. Lawson women have been feeding people in this town for four generations." Amy leaned against the counter, watching him eat. "My great-grandmother started with a food cart during the Depression. Sold soup for a nickel a bowl."
"And now you've got a diner."
"And now I've got a diner."
He finished the meatloaf in silence, scraping the plate clean. When he set down his fork, Amy was already reaching for the pie case.
"Dessert?"
"I shouldn't."
"That's not what I asked."
She cut him a slice of apple pie—her best seller, the one Fort Liberty soldiers drove across town for—and set it in front of him with a fork.
He finished it in four bites.
"Another?"
"Amy—"
She cut another slice before he could protest. Cherry this time. He ate it slower, savoring, but he still finished every crumb.
"One more," she said.
"I can't—"
"Bourbon pecan. My personal favorite."
She put the third slice in front of him and watched him pick up his fork with something that looked like surrender.
He ate it all.
Three slices of pie, one after another, while she leaned against the counter and watched. There was something intimate about it—feeding him, watching him enjoy food she'd made, seeing the pleasure on his face as he tasted what four generations of Lawson women had perfected.
"You're going to ruin me," he said when the third plate was empty.
"For what?"
"Every other pie I'll ever eat."
She smiled—a real smile, the first one in days that didn't feel forced.
"Good," she said. "That's the idea."
He looked at her across the counter, three empty plates between them, and something shifted in the air. Something warm and heavy that made her pulse quicken.
"Amy."
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For dinner."
"Thank you for the motion light."
He smiled. And for a moment, sitting in her aunt's diner with three slices of her pie in his stomach and those steady eyes fixed on her face, everything felt almost normal.
Almost safe.
Almost like the beginning of something she hadn't dared to want.