Blocked number:
Your boyfriend doesn’t like to listen, so I’m hoping you will. Stay the fuck away from Jordan Boucher.
“That text you got that started all this?” Her eyes bounce everywhere, her mind too frantic to focus on anything specific. “Now they’re texting me.”
Fuck. Fuck, fucking, fuck,fuck.
My heart drops to the pit of my stomach.I can’t avoid this any longer.
“Kennedy, we need to talk.”
34
kennedy
“What the fuck is going on, Jordan?” My hands shake as I stare at the back of my phone, my knuckles white. “Who is this? How do they have my number?”
He taps his head against his seat as he stares into the abyss of the steering wheel. “I honestly don’t know who this is. But…fuck, I need to tell you something.”
My heart sinks like a boat anchor in the nearby lake. “Is your…is your family some sort of Canadian Mafia or something? Does that even exist? Am I going to be wearing cement shoes at the bottom of a giant vat of maple syrup?” My eyes flutter closed, my swallow heavy and forced. “Did you know I hate the smell of that shit? When someone brings a McGriddle on the plane, I need my own barf bag! Oh God. I cannot die by drowning in maple syrup.”
“Kennedy. Okay…just…take a deep breath and stay calm. My family is not in the Mafia. We don’t own any maple syrup factories. And I’m probably going to have my citizenship revoked, saying this, but I also don’t like maple syrup. I just eat my pancakes with?—”
“Butter,” we say at the same time. He flashes me a warm, timid smile and, for some reason, that actually calms me down, my hands a little steadier than before.
“Exactly,” he adds. “If it’s a good pancake, you only need butter.”
“Right?” The tension eases a notch. It’s oddly comforting how in sync we are about food. “Or a warm blueberry compote on top. Nowthatis my dream pancake.”
“Hell yes! Blueberries are my favorite. I swear I can eat blueberry anything.”
“Okay, I know I’m freaking the fuck out, but now I really want pancakes.”
He laughs. “You know what…I’m actually starving after the game and all the excitement at the bar, and now your text.” He hesitates for a moment, looking as if he wants encouragement. I drop my phone, relaxing enough to let him know I’m past the initial panic.
He bites his lip. “There’s an all-night breakfast place not far from here. You um…you wanna go? We can talk, and I can explain more about my hatred of maple syrup and,” —he runs his hands through his hair, his eyes darting back toward the steering wheel— “tell you about the other texts I’ve been getting.”
Defeat washes over his face. I’m still unsure what the hell is going on, but for some bizarre reason, I trust him. He’s done nothing other than look out for me.
Just as I’m about to say yes, my stomach lets out the loudest growl I’ve ever heard. “Well,” I chuckle, “apparently my stomach is on board. Let’s go.”
After a short drive, we find a booth inside Millie’s, an old 50s-style diner with red leather booths and a jukebox in the corner, vinyl records spinning inside. The sound of bacon sizzling on theflat-top behind the counter and the smell of plates on the pass-through window have my stomach itching to dive in.
“How have I lived in Milwaukee for years and never heard of this place?”
He flashes me a smile that’s sexier than I’d like to admit, warmth I don’t want to think about spreading through my chest. Especially after getting a text from a stalker and him telling me we need totalk.
“It’s one of those ‘if you know, you know’ places. They don’t advertise, and there’s no social media. It’s just good food, good people, and pancakes as good as those frites we had in Dallas.”
My eyes nearly bulge out of my head. “You’re lying. No food could be better than that.”
“Wait till you try these pancakes—you’ll regret that statement.”
“I seriously doubt it.”
“Jordy!” A sweet, older-looking woman with long gray hair pulled back in a bun comes over to our table and flips over the coffee mugs before filling each one. “Didn’t think I’d be seeing you here for a while with the playoffs. Congrats on the win tonight!”
“Thanks, Beverly.”
