The diner looks like it was decorated sometime around 1974 and hasn’t been touched since. The booths are cracked red vinyl. The napkin dispensers squeak when you pull from them. Every table has the same laminated menu with three items highlighted in neon marker. It’s my idea of perfection and the fact that Dean nailed it sends a silent thrill through me.
Dean slides into the booth across from me, one arm draped over the backrest like he owns the place. I can’t tell if it’s the lighting or the low hum in my bloodstream, but something about him feels unusually easy right now. Like the hard edges softened just enough to breathe around.
A waitress named Doris calls us hon and sweetie and brings waters without being asked. Dean watches her go, then tilts his head at me. “So, Sadie Brooks. Photographer, journalist, serial overthinker. What’s your deal?”
I blink. “My deal?”
He nods, like he’s interviewing me and not the other way around. “Everybody has a deal. What’s yours?”
I drag a finger down my water glass. “You first.”
“Nope.” He insists with a smug smirk. “I asked you.”
I narrow my eyes. “This feels suspiciously like a trap.”
He grins wider. “You afraid of traps?”
“Yes,” I admit. “Yours specifically.”
He laughs, actually laughs, and it’s warm and low and devastating.
“Fine.” I sigh, leaning back. “My deal is-” I pause and tap a finger to my chin in thought, then continue. “I like stories. Not the big dramatic ones. The little ones. Moments that people don’t realize they’re giving away.”
He watches me like I just said something important. “Why?”
“Because tiny moments are usually the true ones.” I shrug. “Everything else is edited.”
He’s quiet for a beat, brows pulling together in a soft, thoughtful way. “That’s-” He clears his throat, looking away. “Weirdly impressive.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone you said anything remotely like a compliment about me.” I flash a quick grin and he shoots me a half-hearted glare in return.
“What about you?” I push. “What’s Dean Ross’s deal?”
“My deal,” he mutters, running a thumb over the condensation on his glass, “is that I mind my business and play my guitar.”
“That’s not a deal. That’s a deflection.” I frown.
“Same thing,” he grunts with a shrug. But there’s a twist of something, a shadow, a history in the grinding of his jaw. Something he won’t name yet. Dean watches me over the rim of his water glass like he’s trying to solve a puzzle no one asked him to put together. His fingers drum idly, but the rest of him is focused, too focused, on me.
I unwrap a straw with more force than necessary. “What?”
He purses his lips. “Nothing.” He pauses, then, “You’re just easy to read.”
I choke on air. “I’m sorry. What universe are you living in?”
“The one where your face gives away everything you’re thinking, Brooks.” One brow arching as he tilts his head.
“My face does not-” I begin to sputter in defense.
“Oh, it does,” he cuts in smoothly. “When you’re annoyed. Curious. Trying not to smile. Trying really hard not to look at me.”
My mouth falls open. “I don’t.”
“You are now,” he says, grinning as my eyes flick to his lips. Bastard.
The waitress drops off our plates. It’s greasy burgers and fries, but neither of us reaches for the food yet. The air between us feels warm, heavy, and stretched tight.
I stab a fry and point it at him. “You know, for someone who claims he doesn't like people, you sure spend a lot of time analyzing them.”
