Chapter One
THIRTY-SIX.
That's how many days it's been since the man in the corner booth walked into my life and ruined my ability to carry a coffee pot without trembling.
Not that anyone noticed the trembling. Or me, for that matter. But that's a different problem for a different day, and right now I have a much bigger problem, and it's sitting six feet away from me, eating a mushroom and gruyère omelet like it personally offended him.
I've been watching him eat for thirty-six days.
I've been counting.
I always count. Steps from the kitchen to the front counter (fourteen). Ceiling tiles in the café (forty-seven, and the one above the register has a crack shaped like Idaho). Seconds between the moment Jolie says something inappropriate and the moment I can feel my face catch fire (average: one point five).
I count because counting makes things manageable, and also because I started doing it during my father's trial when I was twelve and everything in my life was the opposite of manageable, and I guess some habits just...stick.
Like the habit of staring at this man, apparently. Because that's definitely stuck, and no amount of self-discipline or prayer orJolie kicking me under the counter has been enough to shake it loose.
Thirty-six,I find myself thinking again, and the number almost makes me cringe, more so when I realize just howvividlyI recall the first day I saw him.
I was just working my usual morning shift at the café, the one that technically doesn't have a name but everyone local calls Gail's because that's the owner's name, and also because Jackson Hole has exactly three hidden spots that tourists haven't ruined yet, and this
is one of them.
I also remember it was a Tuesday then. Tuesdays are that day of the week when we get our bread delivered from the bakery over in Green Heights, and I remember it was when I was in the back counting loaves (twelve sourdough, eight whole wheat, six rye) when Jolie came through the swinging door with her perpetual cup of coffee in one hand and her worn
paperback ofWuthering Heightsin the other.
She always has that particular book with her, but she’s never explained why. Its dust jacket is creased and faded but still intact, like she's protecting something precious underneath.
"New customer," she said, and there was something in her voice that made me look up from the bread count. "Corner booth. Yours."
"What's wrong with the corner booth?" I asked, because Jolie loves the corner booth. Best tips, she always says, because it's the table with the view of the elk refuge, and people pay extra for views.
"Nothing's wrong with it." She took a sip of coffee, and her eyes—dark and bright and always seeing too much—did that thing where they go all innocent, which means she's about to say something that will make me want to disappear into the walk-in freezer. "I just think
you should take this one."
"Jolie—"
"Trust me." She was already heading back through the door, her beloved Emily Bronté classic tucked under her arm. "You'll thank me later."
I didn't thank her later.
I'm still not sure I've forgiven her, actually, but that's beside the point.
The point is that I walked out of the kitchen with my apron strings tied too tight because I'd retied them three times trying to get them even, which is something I do when I'm nervous even though I have no idea why I was nervous about a corner booth customer, and I looked up.
And I saw him.
He was sitting with his back to the window, which meant the morning light was coming in behind him, turning everything around him into this soft gold haze that made absolutely no sense for February in Wyoming. He had dark hair, dark eyes, and he was reading something on his phone with an expression that I can only describe as beautifully unhappy, which is
a contradiction, I know, but I don't have better words for it.
He looked up, our eyes met, and I swear it was just like how you see it in the movies.
Because right then and there...
I forgot the specials.
