Caspian starts the car, the heating kicking in immediately. “Mysterious,” he teases.
Following my directions, Caspian drives us back into town. When we turn onto Maple Street, his eyes widen as I point him toward Red’s Restaurant.
“This is amazing,” he says, taking in the classic Worcester Lunch Car with its white paint and red trim. “It looks like something out of a movie.”
“Wait until you’re inside,” I tell him, unable to hold back my smile at his enthusiasm. “Red’s is one of those places where time just…slows down.”
As we walk up the switchback ramp to the entrance, Caspian asks, “Is this where the famous diner feud I keep hearing about started?”
“You’ve heard about that already?” I hold the door open for him, the familiar bell chiming above us. “Yeah, this is half of it. Though nobody really knows what actually started it anymore.”
“Reminds me a bit of being offline during the storm,” Caspian says softly as we enter the main dining area. “Like the rest of the world just fades away.”
The comparison makes my chest warm. “Exactly like that.”
Mickey approaches our booth with menus, and I watch Caspian’s eyes travel over the classic interior—the gleaming chrome, the weathered Formica countertops, the checkered floor. Everything here has history, stories embedded in every crack and chip.
“What’s good here?” Caspian asks Mickey, who’s hovering with his notepad ready.
“Everything,” Mickey answers with practiced ease. “But whatever you do, save room for the maple custard pie. It’s what we’re famous for.”
Caspian’s eyes light up. “In that case, I’ll just have the pie.”
“He’ll share my food,” I cut in, giving Mickey my usual order. “Denver omelet, extra crispy bacon, and hashbrowns.”
“Don’t think this means I’m sharing my pie,” Caspian says once Mickey walks away, but his playful smile tells me he’s joking.
“How’s everything coming along with the shop?” I ask, watching as Caspian unconsciously arranges the sugar packets in their holder. His need to organize things, even in spaces that aren’t his, is endearing.
“Actually, I’ve decided to open during the Winter Wishes Festival,” he says, his eyes lighting up with excitement. “Everything’s ready, and Bo and everyone at the community development office have been amazing with helping coordinate the details for the coffee stand, so I’m confident I can do both. The committee is even letting me bring one of my machines to make specialty drinks at my booth.”
The enthusiasm in his voice makes me smile. In just a few weeks, he’s managed to weave himself into the fabric of Maplewood like he’s always belonged here. Something warm and tender unfurls in my chest as I watch him talk about his plans, his hands moving animatedly as he describes the coffee station setup.
Mickey returns with our food, setting down a plate piled high with the omelet, perfectly crisp bacon arranged in a red ceramic mug, and golden hashbrowns. The familiar sight makes my stomach growl.
“The pie will be out in a bit,” Mickey says with a wink before heading back to the counter.
I push the plate to the center of the table and hand Caspian a fork. “Dig in. Mickey makes the best omelets in town.”
“In town?” Caspian raises an eyebrow as he takes a bite. His eyes widen. “Okay, maybe in the state. This is incredible.”
We fall into a comfortable conversation as we share the food, occasionally battling for the last bite of bacon or a particularly crispy bit of hashbrown. It feels natural, sitting here with him in my favorite diner, watching the winter light filter through the windows and catch in his dark hair.
Mickey returns with a generous slice of maple custard pie, and Caspian’s face lights up like it’s Christmas morning.
The pie barely touches the table before Caspian’s fork is diving in for the first bite. His eyes close in bliss as he savors it, and I find myself watching his reaction more than wanting a taste myself.
“Oh my god,” he moans softly. “This is…I mean…wow.”
I chuckle. “I take it you approve?”
“Approve?” He takes another bite, shaking his head. “Nate, this is a life-changing pie. I need to figure out how to incorporate these flavors into a coffee drink.”
“Don’t let Mickey hear you say that,” I warn him, only half-joking. “The pie recipe is sacred territory around here.”
Caspian glances at the counter where Mickey is wiping down the surface, then leans forward conspiratorially. “I wouldn’t dream of copying it. But maybe a maple custard latte…” He trails off, and I can practically see the wheels turning in his head.
The way he gets lost in his coffee creations, the spark of creativity in his eyes—it’s incredibly attractive. I find myself leaning forward too, drawn into his enthusiasm.
