“Well, if I can make it through the day without burning the place down, you can praise me then.”
“I’m sure you’re going to do just fine,” he says, handing me money and waving off the change as a tip.
I stuff it in my apron. “Thanks!”
“Tell Muriel I’ll bring by some honey in a few days,” he says as he pockets his wallet.
“Will do,” I reply, a little breathlessly because damn… he sure is pretty.
Eli flashes a brief smile—enough to make Mary-Margaret gasp—and heads for the door.
When it closes behind him, the diner exhales, and I exchange a look with the Mancinkus twins. We all break out in huge grins, an acknowledgement of our wayward thoughts as women who appreciate a fine-looking man.
The bacon resumes its sizzle. Chairs scrape. Conversation bursts back to life.
“All right, folks,” Johnny shouts, flipping a pancake. “Show’s over. Back to work.”
And as if on cue, the bell jingles again, but the roomdoesn’t go silent this time. When I see Sam walk in, I have to admit—it does tilt, just a little.
I watch him walk through, shaking hands with a few of the regulars at a nearby table. While Eli Hart is objectively gorgeous—like male-model hot—in my opinion, he doesn’t hold a candle to Sam Rochelle.
As a woman, I can appreciate the faded jeans riding low on his hips, a navy T-shirt clinging in ways I am not qualified to discuss with anyone but my own conscience. His blond hair’s worn a little long, all chopped layers and waves, and his warm blue eyes seem to hold secrets I’d like to get to the bottom of.
I pour refills at the counter, keeping half an eye on Sam as he winds through the tables, coming straight my way. One of the mugs hits overflow and hot coffee spills over the edge. “Crap.”
“Hey, Penny,” Sam says as he takes the empty stool to Floyd’s left.
“Good morning to you,” I mutter, snatching a towel and mopping the counter with apologies to the customer.
“Looks like things are running well,” he says, surveying the nearly full restaurant.
“Barely,” I whisper as I lean in conspiratorially. “If the health inspector walks in, I’m going to fake my death behind the pie case.”
“That’s a lot of drama for eight thirty in the morning.”
“That it is.” I sigh in acknowledgment. “And we haven’t even hit the full morning rush yet. What can I get you?”
“Coffee and a sausage biscuit to go.”
“Sausage biscuit to go,” I call back to Johnny, not bothering with a ticket for something so simple. I prepare a to-go cup of coffee, add a plastic top, and hand it to Sam.
I tap a few keys on the register. “That will be $8.47.”
Sam hands me a twenty. “Keep the change. It’s a tip well earned.”
“It took me all of fifteen seconds to prepare your coffee.” I laugh.
“You opened this place up and that’s worth far more,” he insists.
“But…” I want to argue and point out he’s a bartender and I know he doesn’t make much money, but that would ding his pride.
So instead, I merely say, “Thank you.”
“How are you holding up?” he asks as he takes in the bustle. I’m only one of three waitresses. “I know you’re doing more than just waiting tables.”
“I feel like I’m directing traffic while wearing a blindfold,” I admit. “But things are starting to come back to me.”
He tilts his head and gives me a quick once-over. “Looks like you’re doing just fine from where I’m standing.”
