She wriggled her eyebrows. “Snapper Avila, by any chance?”
My cheeks heated. “It’s not like that, Marcy.”
“Sure, it’s not.” She tilted her head toward the back. “Want your usual seat?”
“Please.”
She led me to the corner booth where I’d sat through too many heartbreak coffees with my sister to count. The vinyl, while replaced not that long ago, was already showing signs of wear. Above me, faded photographs of Moonstone Beach decorated wood-paneled walls, and someone had strung the tiny shells between the frames after they’d fallen down last Christmas.
I took Marilyn’s journal out of my bag and set it on the table, then changed my mind and put it back. I didn’t want to appear too eager.
“Coffee while you wait?” Marcy had returned, pot in hand.
“Please. With cream.”
She poured and set a small bowl of creamers on the table. “How’s the family?”
“Same ol’, same ol’,” I said. “How about yours?”
“Dad’s as stubborn as ever.” She shook her head. “Mom wants him to slow down, and he tells her he isn’t dead yet.”
She chuckled, then headed off to refill other cups. I dumped three creamers and an equal number of sugar packets into my mug and stirred, watching the cream swirl.
The bell above the door chimed, and Snapper filled the doorway, scanning the diner until he saw me. Behind him, the fog had started to lift, and weak sunlight outlined his frame. My breath caught. Last night in his tux, he’d been devastating in a polished, untouchable way. This morning? The faded jeansthat hung low on his hips and the charcoal-gray Henley that clung to his chest and arms had my focus unraveling. The fabric stretched across his shoulders when he raised a hand to push his hair, still damp from a shower, back, and when he smiled at me, my traitorous heart flipped. Did the man have to be the very definition of hot-as-fuck?
Stop it,I scolded myself. He’s here as a friend. Nothing more.
He made his way through the tables with an easy grace that came from years of this place being his second home, just like it was mine. I noticed how women’s heads turned to track his movement as he dodged a toddler who’d escaped his high chair and stepped aside for a waitress balancing a full tray. Of course they stared, not that he noticed. Snapper had absolutely no idea the effect he had on people. Especially on me.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” he said, sliding into the booth, across from me. The endearment meant nothing. He called everyone sweetheart, darlin’, or honey.
“Morning.”
Marcy appeared at our table. “Hey, Snapper. How’s that shoulder?”
“Getting better, thanks.” He smiled up at her. “How’s the breakfast rush treating you?”
“Same chaos as always.” She tapped her notepad with her pen. “Coffee?”
“Black, please. And I’m starving—can I get the lumberjack special with extra bacon, eggs over easy, wheat toast, and a side of buttermilk pancakes? Oh, and two olallieberry muffins, heated.”
“I don’t know where you put it all, Avila. Some day, it’ll catch up with you,” she commented.
He rubbed his stomach. “Still got my washboard abs, don’t I?”
She laughed. “Yeah, you do.” She turned to me. “What about you, Saff?”
“Just coffee, thanks.”
Snapper’s eyes scrunched. “When’s the last time you ate?”
“Last night?—”
“No, you didn’t.” His gaze sharpened. “You didn’t touch your dinner.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“She’ll have scrambled eggs and wheat toast.”
