“And what if I don’t?” The words blurt out before I can stop them.
His appreciating eyes dip down to my front before returning to my face.
“Then be ready.”
Without waiting for my reply, he disappears through the gap, leaving me wondering if Jericho Landell just threatened me with a good time.
19
Jericho
The morning is crisp with fall’s bite, turning my breath to fog as I stride toward Moons’ Diner. I’m late to breakfast by most standards—it’s nearly ten—but after that encounter with Nora at dawn, I didn’t bother going back to sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the flash of her bare legs, felt the ghost of her lips against mine from the night before. I spent the entire morning distracting myself with projects around the house—permits or not—until the growl of my stomach urged me out the door and on my way to Moons’.
I push open the diner door, the bell announcing my arrival with a cheerful jingle that feels at odds with my mood. The place is half full. The morning rush has thinned out, leaving scattered locals nursing coffee cups and picking at late breakfasts.
The majority of their eyes turn my way when I come in—looks like I’m still a novelty around here—while my eyes immediately find her behind the counter, her red hair sweptup in a messy bun, strands escaping to frame her face. She hasn’t seen me yet, focused on refilling someone’s coffee. I watch the easy way she smiles at the customers, the light that comes into her eyes when she laughs at something they say. She looks different here than in our shadowy dawn encounters—like a queen in her territory. More grounded, more certain of herself. This is her place, and I like seeing her here just as much as I like the flirty Nora who comes out under the cover of night.
She pats an old woman’s shoulder and waltzes toward the side door where she disappears, unknowingly giving me time to collect myself—looks like she’s not the only one who feels braver in the darkness.
I slide onto a stool at the far end of the counter, trying to ignore the throbbing in my injured finger. It’s swollen worse than yesterday, a deep purple blooming beneath the nail. Moon’s ‘nice fella’ comment about Dick—or was it Jake—had cost me.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” a gruff voice says beside me.
I turn to find a heavyset man with a salt-and-pepper beard watching me over the rim of his coffee mug across the counter. His eyes are narrowed in assessment, but there’s no real hostility there.
“Roman,” he says, extending a flour-dusted hand. “The cook. You’re the new neighbor who put Dick in his place.”
I shake his hand, carefully avoiding using my injured finger. “Jericho.”
When I saw him the other day in the kitchen, I suspected he might have been the Roman who nearly cost me another finger, and I see now what Moon was talking about—he does give off a fatherly energy. Like he’s ready to feed and protect the whole place. And he sure looks the part—big and burly. I instantly like him.
“I know who you are.” He chuckles, his gaze flickering around the diner, then back to me. “Everyone does by now.”
Hope they don’t.
“Coffee?” Roman asks, already reaching for a mug.
“Thanks.”
He gets a thermos from under the table and fills a mug to the brim with something that smells strong enough to strip paint.
“On the house,” he says with a wink. “For services rendered to the community.”
Before I can respond, Nora returns from the back and spots me, and for a heartbeat, she freezes. A blush creeps up her neck, and I know she’s remembering the same things I couldn’t forget all night.
She approaches slowly, wiping her hands on her apron. “You’re back,” she says, her voice carefully neutral, though her eyes give her away.
I grunt in response, taking a sip of Roman’s coffee and nearly spitting it right back out. It’s like drinking liquid fire.
“Don’t embarrass me, boy. Maybe you need some water?” Roman cackles.
Nora rolls her eyes and shifts her weight, leaning casually on one hip. “I’ll get you some. I don’t know why you agreed to drink his poison.”
She slides a water glass toward me with a deliberate slowness, sending Roman an exaggerated evil eye on the way, as if to say, ‘Can you believe this guy?’
“Here. It will help with whatever mud he’s cooked in there.” Her words are full of mock concern, but there’s a warmth beneath them that isn’t lost on me. Chugging it down with one go doesn’t remove the awful taste from my mouth.
Roman’s mud coffee is not the topic I’d choose this morning, but we hadn’t exactly planned on seeing each other so soon after our last encounter, and it feels like she’s trying to find safe ground for the both of us.
