“Afternoon.” She pulled a pen from behind her ear. Her voice was low, throaty, roughened at the edges from too many shouted orders and not enough water. “Welcome to The Tight Line. I’m Rylin. What can I get you?”
Rylin. The name landed like a punch under my sternum. I repeated it in my head, tasting how it might feel sliding across my tongue in the dark. Then I forced air out of my lungs.
“Micah,” I answered even though she obviously knew. “Good to meet you.”
Her smile twitched, polite but cautious. “Likewise. You look like a man who could demolish an entire menu. Want the Shaffer Stack?”
I grinned. “Hell no. I’m starving, not suicidal. I can’t eat shit like that until the season is over.”
I didn’t need to see the menu to know what she was referring to, not just because Raiden and I had created it, but because I had an eidetic memory. That particular sandwich was two pounds of thick-cut turkey, maple-glazed bacon, sharp cheddar, arugula, and honey Dijon aioli on toasted sourdough. Named after my best friend and co-owner. He’d also chosen the tag line, too—Big. Balanced. Dangerous in the red zone.
Not that I had any room to judge since I’d usedThe linebacker of melts. Heavy-hitting and unforgettablefor Micah’s Monster Melt.
“Give me The Tight End.”
Grilled chicken, smoked gouda, crispy pancetta, roasted red peppers, and basil pesto on ciabatta.Lean. Solid. Built for speed.
She jotted notes with quick strokes and looked at me from under lashes darker than her hair. “Anything to drink?”
“A gallon of iced tea if you’ve got it.” I smiled crookedly so she’d know it was half joke, half truth. “Practice was brutal.”
Her lips quirked. This close, I could see how thin she really was under the apron—lean muscle wrapped around a frame that looked like it’d skipped more meals than it should. I felt heat crawl beneath my sternum, half anger at whatever situation wore her down, the other part a desperate need to fix it.
“I’ll bring you a pitcher.” Her voice softened by a degree. “Kitchen’ll be quick.”
She turned to go, and I heard myself speak before the thought cleared. “Rylin?”
Her ponytail swung as she looked back at me. The smile she gave me punched like a late hit. Sun breaking through tired clouds, fleeting but bright. “Yep?”
“You’re new?”
“Started last week.” Her pen tapped against the ticket pad with an unconscious rhythm, as if she were full of nervous energy. But her face remained locked in a polite expression. “Trying not to drown in sandwich lore.”
“Seems like you’ve got it handled.” The words felt inadequate for how hard she was working, but they earned me a real smile, quick and bright enough to light the whole fucking city.
My ribs went soft.Shit.
She pivoted, headed for the pass-through, and those cheap black uniform pants couldn’t hide a damn thing. The sway of her hips hit me like film-study slo-mo. I shifted on the vinyl seat to make sure the growing pressure behind my zipper stayed hidden.For fuck’s sake, Daughtry, get it together.
While I waited, I pulled out my phone, pretending to review notes from practice while I really tracked Rylin’s every step.
She re-emerged from the back and moved behind the counter, flipped a ticket spike, snagged a ceramic cup, and poured iced tea into it, darker than crude oil. The strong stuff we brewed for ourselves. Then she filled a glass pitcher, grabbed a fresh meal off the pass-through, and balanced everything on a tray.
As she headed back, I clocked every detail. Her hair still escaping, sweat shining at her temples, and her uniform shirt tightening across her chest each time she inhaled. She set the pitcher down and handed over the silverware without letting our fingers brush. Professional lines drawn.
Then she was gone again, off to another table before I could come up with something else to say, just to keep her there with me for a few more moments.
I finished my iced tea, filled my glass again, and took a long swallow, letting the caffeine punch wakefulness through my bloodstream. While I waited for my food, I watched Rylin work. The smile she gave a kid. The quiet apology when a customer had to wait an extra moment. The way she tucked stray hair behind her ear out of habit.
She dropped plates off, refilled drinks, and ducked into the back to grab a bus tub, balancing it on one hip. Polite and efficient. But like I’d noticed before, too fucking thin.
The protective streak my mama drilled into me ignited. I heard her voice in my head. “Take care of your own, Micah Lee Daughtry. You have those broad shoulders for a reason.”
She’d spent my childhood reminding me to shield my kid brother and never let my big sister boss me out of kindness. That reflex fired now, straight at Rylin. She was working herself ragged, and I needed to take care of her for a reason I couldn’t name.
My sandwich arrived six minutes later, steam curling off the bread. Rylin set the basket in front of me and slid napkins across the table.
“You gonna bench-press that or eat it?” She arched a brow, and her lips curled into a slight smile.
