Chapter 4
Penny
By eight a.m., I’ve developed a newfound respect for short-order cooks, circus performers and anyone who’s ever tried to herd caffeinated Southerners before sunrise.
The restaurant smells like bacon grease and fresh biscuits. Steam hisses from the coffee maker while Johnny hollers “Order up!” from the pass window for what feels like the hundredth time. I’m juggling coffee pots, refilling creamers, and trying to look like someone who knows what she’s doing.
Running a diner is a lot different from just running tables, I’ve discovered. It probably would be okay if all I had to do was orchestrate and manage, but one of Central’s longtime waitresses, who was incredibly happy to be returning, had to call out because of the flu, so I’m standing in.
“Penny!” Johnny shouts. “I’m almost out of salt. I need a refill.”
“Shit,” I mutter, setting down the pile of menus I just collected and running for the supply room in the back. I grab the large canister and run it to Johnny, who grunts his thanks. My hair’s escaping my ponytail in annoying fringes and my arm aches from pouring coffee.
The doorbell jingles and in comes Floyd, Whynot’s most enthusiastic source of unsolicited wisdom. He plunks himself at the counter, beard ready to catch any crumbs that might miss his mouth.
“Morning,” he says, eyeballing me up and down. “You look like you’ve been wrestling a waffle iron.”
“Just living my best life,” I reply, sliding an empty cup before him and filling it with brew.
He squints into the mug. “If you’da added a splash of bourbon to that coffee, I’d call it a balanced breakfast.”
“Noted. I’ll get right on bootlegging,” I say. “Want the usual?”
Now, it’s been over six years since I’ve worked here regularly. I first started waiting tables for Aunt Muriel when I was fourteen and continued through college, but once I made that break to DC, I’ve only been back for the occasional meal in here.
But Floyd is a Whynot treasure—antique, really—and in all the times I’ve served him, he never ordered anything different.
“Yup,” he says, adding cream to his coffee.
I scribble down shorthand notes for three eggs over easy, hash browns, bacon crisp and whole wheat toast. I whip toward the ticket carousel hanging above the pass-through and clip it in for Johnny.
Two stools down, Pap flicks a look in Floyd’s direction. “Bourbon for breakfast. Lord save us.”
I grin at him. “More coffee, Pap?”
His gaze comes back to me. “As long as it’s black enough to scare the devil.”
I pour the refill. “How was your breakfast?”
He takes one sip and levels a look at me. “It hit the spot, although I noticed you upped the price of biscuits by two cents.”
“Inflation,” I shoot back. “You can take it up with the Federal Reserve.”
He harrumphs but I see the twinkle in his expression. “I fought for this country.”
“Then consider it your patriotic duty to pay more,” I tell him sweetly.
My bestie Larkin sits next to her identical twin, Laken, who sits to the right of Pap. The ladies have twin halos of luxurious chocolate-brown hair, arresting hazel eyes and matching grins.
“Pap’s feisty this morning,” Laken observes as I top off their javas.
“Your grandpa is a teddy bear,” I counter, cutting to Pap, who ignores the comment. Which… pretty sure no one has ever referred to the retired Marine as a fluffy stuffed toy before.
Larkin snorts and the twins share a laugh at Pap’s expense, but I’m already spinning off to the next table, where Mary-Margaret Quinn sits wearing her broad-brimmed hat and rings on every finger.
“Penny, darling,” she calls, “if you’d let me bring in one of my antique mirrors, this space could really shine. It’ll open up the room—and reflect all our sins at the same time.”
“Appreciate it, Mary-Margaret,” I reply, picking up three plates from a nearby table and balancing them on one arm, “but I think Whynot’s got enough mirrors for that.”
She giggles like a young girl and I grin back at her.
The café hums like a hive, full of laughter, clinking mugs, and the hiss of Johnny’s griddle. It’s pure craziness, but the good kind—loud, alive and entirely unpredictable.
Johnny’s laugh booms from the kitchen. “Penny, you got a second?”
I dodge around Pap’s stool and walk through the double doors to the kitchen, dropping the plates with a clatter in one of the large industrial sinks.
Johnny Clemons—forty-something, red-faced, and built like a linebacker who never stopped bulking up—is wearing an apron that reads Kiss the Cook—But Not If You Value Your Life. His grin could light up a power outage.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Order for Eli Hart’s ready,” he says, handing me a brown paper bag that has a Styrofoam container inside. “Called it in half an hour ago—honey-biscuit sandwich with bacon. Told him I’d have it hot when he got here.”
“Got it.” I wipe my palms on my apron and accept the order.
I head back into the dining area just as Eli walks in.
It goes quiet and I swear, even the bacon stops sizzling.
My breath catches just a little as the owner of Hart Apiaries strides in.
Eli’s in his mid-thirties, devastatingly gorgeous with near-black hair, blue eyes sharp as a Carolina sky after a storm, jeans faded just right, and a plain gray T-shirt that looks sinful on a man who clearly knows manual labor.
I swear the air pressure shifts just from his presence.
Mary-Margaret actually fans herself with her laminated menu. “Mercy.”
Larkin murmurs, “He is not hard to look at.”
“No, he is not,” Laken adds, starry-eyed.
Pap snorts. “You girls get those hormones under control. You both have husbands at home.”
The twins snicker and continue to stare at Eli.
Floyd leans back on his stool, amused. “I admit… he’s handsome in all the right ways.”
Eli nods as he moves past other customers, unbothered by the attention. Or maybe he’s oblivious, but he walks with the quiet confidence of a man who doesn’t need to prove a damn thing.
I move to the register to meet him. “Hey, Eli.”
“There’s the heroine of the town,” he says, voice deep, warm, Southern but not twangy. “Opening back up Central Café and making all our dreams come true.”
“Well, if I can make it through the day without burning the place down, you can praise me then.”
“I’m sure you’re going to do just fine,” he says, handing me money and waving off the change as a tip.
I stuff it in my apron. “Thanks!”
“Tell Muriel I’ll bring by some honey in a few days,” he says as he pockets his wallet.
“Will do,” I reply, a little breathlessly because damn… he sure is pretty.
Eli flashes a brief smile—enough to make Mary-Margaret gasp—and heads for the door.
When it closes behind him, the diner exhales, and I exchange a look with the Mancinkus twins. We all break out in huge grins, an acknowledgement of our wayward thoughts as women who appreciate a fine-looking man.
The bacon resumes its sizzle. Chairs scrape. Conversation bursts back to life.
“All right, folks,” Johnny shouts, flipping a pancake. “Show’s over. Back to work.”
And as if on cue, the bell jingles again, but the room doesn’t go silent this time. When I see Sam walk in, I have to admit—it does tilt, just a little.
I watch him walk through, shaking hands with a few of the regulars at a nearby table. While Eli Hart is objectively gorgeous—like male-model hot—in my opinion, he doesn’t hold a candle to Sam Rochelle.
As a woman, I can appreciate the faded jeans riding low on his hips, a navy T-shirt clinging in ways I am not qualified to discuss with anyone but my own conscience.
His blond hair’s worn a little long, all chopped layers and waves, and his warm blue eyes seem to hold secrets I’d like to get to the bottom of.
I pour refills at the counter, keeping half an eye on Sam as he winds through the tables, coming straight my way. One of the mugs hits overflow and hot coffee spills over the edge. “Crap.”
“Hey, Penny,” Sam says as he takes the empty stool to Floyd’s left.
“Good morning to you,” I mutter, snatching a towel and mopping the counter with apologies to the customer.
“Looks like things are running well,” he says, surveying the nearly full restaurant.
“Barely,” I whisper as I lean in conspiratorially. “If the health inspector walks in, I’m going to fake my death behind the pie case.”
“That’s a lot of drama for eight thirty in the morning.”
“That it is.” I sigh in acknowledgment. “And we haven’t even hit the full morning rush yet. What can I get you?”
“Coffee and a sausage biscuit to go.”
“Sausage biscuit to go,” I call back to Johnny, not bothering with a ticket for something so simple. I prepare a to-go cup of coffee, add a plastic top, and hand it to Sam.
I tap a few keys on the register. “That will be $8.47.”
Sam hands me a twenty. “Keep the change. It’s a tip well earned.”
“It took me all of fifteen seconds to prepare your coffee.” I laugh.
“You opened this place up and that’s worth far more,” he insists.
“But…” I want to argue and point out he’s a bartender and I know he doesn’t make much money, but that would ding his pride.
So instead, I merely say, “Thank you.”
“How are you holding up?” he asks as he takes in the bustle. I’m only one of three waitresses. “I know you’re doing more than just waiting tables.”
“I feel like I’m directing traffic while wearing a blindfold,” I admit. “But things are starting to come back to me.”
He tilts his head and gives me a quick once-over. “Looks like you’re doing just fine from where I’m standing.”
I blush at what I think is obvious flirtation. “That’s because I’m standing in flattering light,” I say, then immediately wish I had swallowed the sentence.
His grin turns slow and devastating. “You always this charming in the morning?”
“Only when I’m being charmed.”
Sam’s eyes flash, his generous lips curving into a blinding smile. “Good to know.”
I look toward the customers down the counter—Floyd, Pap, Larken and Laken, and they’re all watching us intently, all with knowing smiles, but the twins have a glint of something predatory.
“Muriel doing okay?” Sam asks, and my head whips back his way.
“Um… yeah. She’s doing fine. Bossy as ever.” We both chuckle because it’s the right answer. “But that’s definitely not a secret.”
The bell on the door rings again and a trio of DOT workers sweep in on a tide of steel-toed boots. They take a seat in my section and I grab menus.
I look to Sam one last time. “It was good to see you. Your biscuit will be up in a second.”
“I’m not in a rush.”
“Unfortunately, I am,” I huff as I turn away.
“You should come to Chesty’s tonight,” he calls out, and I almost stumble as I glance over my shoulder at him. “Come have a drink on me. You’ve earned it.”
“I don’t know,” I say, pretending to consider, feeling the weight of Floyd and the Mancinkus trio’s stares on me. “I might fall asleep in my drink.”
“That’s okay. I make a mean pillow out of bar napkins.”
I bite my lip to stop the smile, fail miserably, and give up. “Maybe I will.”
Johnny yells, “Sam’s order’s up!” and I turn to see a brown paper bag with grease stains on it.
I grab it, hand it to Sam, and our fingers brush, sending goose bumps up my arms. “See you tonight,” he says and then nods at Floyd.
I watch as Sam leaves and for a second, I just… stand there. My pulse is ridiculous. My palms are sweating. My face, if the heat crawling up my neck is any indication, is definitely beet red.
It lasts exactly three Mississippi.
“That was some heavy-duty flirting,” Larkin sings.
“You’re red as a tomato,” Laken adds, chin in hand, delighted.
“Oh, stuff it, you two,” I say, which would be more convincing if my voice didn’t hop a register.
“Honey,” Mary-Margaret says, fanning herself for emphasis, “denial’s a sin too.”
Pap snorts, eager to throw in his two cents. “Lord help him if he gets involved with a Pritchard woman. They’re nothing but trouble.”
“Johnny,” I say desperately, “throw a pancake at someone.”
He grins, ignoring my request. “Darlin’, I only use my powers for good.”
“Then please define good as ‘rescuing me from my friends.’”
“Nope. This is better than morning TV.” He points his spatula at my face. “You got flour on your cheek. And a dreamy look on your face. Which you plan to wipe first?”
I swat at my face, mortified. “Neither. I’m fine.”
“You’re glowing,” Laken says.
“Like a jar of fireflies,” Larkin adds.
“Like a jar of embarrassment,” I mutter, heading toward the DOT crew.
But the truth hums under my skin, bright as neon and twice as hard to ignore. No matter how tired I am or how heavy this burden is to keep Central afloat while Muriel recuperates, Sam leaning on the counter and telling me I’m doing just fine quiets the noise a little. His faith in me is grounding.
I stack plates, refill cream, dodge Pap’s elbow, and point Floyd toward the tip jar when he starts waxing philosophical about the barter system. The door opens and closes. People come and go. Life does its thumping, happy thing.
And Sam’s invitation sits in my chest like a warm stone.
I’m bussing a table near the door when Larkin and Laken are walking out, but I don’t escape some last-minute advice.
“So,” Larkin says, nudging me with her shoulder. “Chesty’s tonight?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Your mouth said maybe,” Laken says, “but your face said yes.”
“My face says a lot when it’s being harassed by twins.”
“Encouraged,” Larkin corrects. “We’re encouraging.”
“Like personal trainers,” Laken adds. “But for romance.”
“Fantastic,” I say. “Do I get a cool-down stretch after?”
“Sure,” Larkin says. “It’s called kissing.”
“Out,” I tell them, pointing with my towel. “Before I make you bus tables.”
They scamper away, laughing victoriously.