“If I do, I’ll call you to rebuild the kitchen.”
“Then we’re both screwed.” I push the door wider, letting in the morning air. “You should stop by Chesty’s one night. I’ll pour you something stronger than coffee.”
Her mouth curves, equal parts challenge and promise. “I think I’ll do that.”
I step outside, the door jingling closed behind me. I take off into my run and when I glance back, Penny’s standing at the window, backlit by the warm glow of the café, smiling at me.
And for reasons I don’t even want to start unpacking, the whole day already feels brighter. I throw a hand up in farewell and pound the pavement with more energy than I had before.
I tell myself it’s just endorphins, that easy high from the miles, but that’s a lie and I know it.
It’s Penny.
I cut down toward Crabtree Creek, the water glinting between the trees. The air’s warming fast now, cicadas testing their voices. A few early risers wave from porches and I wave to every one of them. By the time I reach the duplex, my brain’s already trying to switch gears to the other job. I’ll shower, make coffee, and park myself in front of the laptop. It’s set up on the small kitchen table,only big enough for two people—I need to prepare myself mentally to stay parked there for the next ten hours.
Deadlines don’t care if you were up before dawn. The manuscript’s due in three weeks, and my editor’s polite reminders are starting to sound like threats.
By the time I sit down to work, the courthouse bell tolls seven. The cursor blinks, waiting. I should be thinking about the next chapter I need to write, but all I can picture is Penny Pritchard standing in a cloud of flour, looking like trouble-wrapped big-city polish.
And even though I have too much to do and not enough time to do it, I actually don’t mind that distraction.
CHAPTER 4
Penny
By eight a.m.,I’ve developed a newfound respect for short-order cooks, circus performers and anyone who’s ever tried to herd caffeinated Southerners before sunrise.
The restaurant smells like bacon grease and fresh biscuits. Steam hisses from the coffee maker while Johnny hollers “Order up!” from the pass window for what feels like the hundredth time. I’m juggling coffee pots, refilling creamers, and trying to look like someone who knows what she’s doing.
Running a diner is a lot different from just running tables, I’ve discovered. It probably would be okay if all I had to do was orchestrate and manage, but one of Central’s longtime waitresses, who was incredibly happy to be returning, had to call out because of the flu, so I’m standing in.
“Penny!” Johnny shouts. “I’m almost out of salt. I need a refill.”
“Shit,” I mutter, setting down the pile of menus I just collected and running for the supply room in the back. I grab the large canister and run it to Johnny, who grunts his thanks. My hair’s escaping my ponytail in annoying fringes and my arm aches from pouring coffee.
The doorbell jingles and in comes Floyd, Whynot’s most enthusiastic source of unsolicited wisdom. He plunks himself at the counter, beard ready to catch any crumbs that might miss his mouth.
“Morning,” he says, eyeballing me up and down. “You look like you’ve been wrestling a waffle iron.”
“Just living my best life,” I reply, sliding an empty cup before him and filling it with brew.
He squints into the mug. “If you’da added a splash of bourbon to that coffee, I’d call it a balanced breakfast.”
“Noted. I’ll get right on bootlegging,” I say. “Want the usual?”
Now, it’s been over six years since I’ve worked here regularly. I first started waiting tables for Aunt Muriel when I was fourteen and continued through college, but once I made that break to DC, I’ve only been back for the occasional meal in here.
But Floyd is a Whynot treasure—antique, really—and in all the times I’ve served him, he never ordered anything different.
“Yup,” he says, adding cream to his coffee.
I scribble down shorthand notes for three eggs overeasy, hash browns, bacon crisp and whole wheat toast. I whip toward the ticket carousel hanging above the pass-through and clip it in for Johnny.
Two stools down, Pap flicks a look in Floyd’s direction. “Bourbon for breakfast. Lord save us.”
I grin at him. “More coffee, Pap?”
His gaze comes back to me. “As long as it’s black enough to scare the devil.”
