1
Greta
“Happy is just a heartbeat away from ‘holy crap, it’s happening again.’”
It’s an ordinary Tuesday at the diner—which means I’ve refilled Mr. Canter’s decaf four times, dodged a marriage proposal from Guy the mailman (he’s eighty-two and losing his hearing, but I still said “maybe” to keep things interesting), and burned precisely one grilled cheese because I was too busy eavesdropping on Nate Bishop asking for extra whipped cream on his pie.
Yes.Whipped cream. Onpie. Mr. Tall, Dark, and Broody has a sweet tooth he pretends not to have, and I’m not above weaponizing that knowledge.
“You sure you don’t want the whole can?” I ask, sliding the plate in front of him with a little flourish.
Nate lifts an eyebrow without looking up. “You trying to get me killed?”
“By what, diabetes or desire?” I quip, then immediately regret it becauseyikes, Greta, tone it down.
His mouth twitches. A win. I mark it down on my invisible scoreboard.
“I’ll take my chances,” he mutters, then forks a bite of cherry pie so sinful it should come with a warning label.
I fan myself dramatically. “You know, if you smiled more, women would probably stop breathing in a three-mile radius.”
“That sounds messy.”
“Oh, I love a man who plans ahead.”
Nate smirks, just a flicker, then drops his attention back to the pie like it personally offends him. Typical. He’s been coming in here for months—quiet, calm, always watching—but the man’s harder to read than the town budget. Still, I’ve noticed a few things:
He sits facing the door. Always.
He watches me more than he watches the pie. And hereallylikes the pie.
He’s got that ex-military, don’t-touch-my-trauma vibe… which would normally be a red flag, except I’ve got my own collection of waving red banners.
And today? Today one of them’s lying in wait under the napkin holder.
I find it during cleanup—lunch rush is over, everyone’s drifted out, and Nate’s the last customer still sipping his coffee like he’s got nowhere else to be. I’m wiping down table five when myhand brushes paper. A folded note, plain white, no envelope. Probably a scribbled thank-you or “best pie in town” or?—
No.
Not this.
Not now.
My fingers go cold.
Because written in neat, familiar handwriting are six words that shouldn’t exist in this town:
