He huffed a laugh. “Rude. And it’s Joseph. Nathaniel Joseph Winters.”
“Eliza Mae Darlington,” I replied.
We both smiled, and the silence that followed felt different this time—thick with possibility, like something was pulling us together.
He stepped around the counter, slow, deliberate, and leaned against the stool next to mine.
“Eliza Mae Darlington. Beautiful.”
I met his gaze. Big mistake.
Those brown eyes were gorgeous. And the way he smelled—soap, coffee, and a trace of vanilla from the diner was irresistible.
“We don’t usually see each other without Tilly,” I said quietly. “Like, lunch that one time and a few other times here and there.”
“I know, and I want more.”
The air between us buzzed. My breath hitched in my throat.
He didn’t move closer, not quite. He just stayed there, waiting. Letting me decide.
So, I did.
I stood and kissed him.
Quick. Warm. Just enough pressure to know it was real, but not enough to shatter the fragile thread of whatever was blooming between us.
When I pulled back, he was still there, eyes searching mine, lips curved.
“That was definitely not mediocre,” he said.
“Shut up,” I muttered, a grin I couldn’t fight quirking up the corner of my mouth.
“Okay,” he whispered. “But only because I want to kiss you again.”
I blinked. “You’re very confident.”
“Nope,” he said, and his smile turned a little crooked. “I’m just really sure about you.”
And damn it if my heart didn’t flip like a pancake on a hot griddle.
The silence stretched between us, thick and charged. Every heartbeat seemed to echo in it, making the air electric and alive, as if the room itself was holding its breath with us. I could feel the tension humming, begging to be broken and promising something new was waiting on the other side of it. And before I could second-guess myself, I leaned in—and kissed him again.
It wasn’t tentative this time.
It was heat and want and breathless need, the kind of kiss that spoke in tongues—of missed chances and long stares, of bad timing and better hopes. My hands landed on his chest, the warmth of him bleeding through to my fingers. He kissed me back like he’d been holding it in. Like I was the only thing on his mind. Like I was already his.
His mouth moved against mine with slow, coaxing insistence. He was pushy, he was confident and I liked it. He tasted like coffee and something sweeter I wanted more of. When he deepened the kiss, his hand came up to my neck, his thumb brushing the edge of my jaw in a way that made my knees go weak.
I tilted my face toward him, wanting more. Needing it.
His other hand slid to my waist and tugged me closer. I let out the quietest sound—half gasp, half groan—and he kissed me harder, like I’d undone some tether in him.
“God, Eliza,” he murmured against my mouth. “You’re gonna wreck me, aren’t you?”
My pulse was a runaway train. “Better than mediocre, huh?” I whispered, breathless.
He pulled back just enough to look at me, eyes dark and stormy. “Not even in the same universe as mediocre.”
