It was so different from the contemporary glass and concrete architecture of Jacksonville, where everything was designed to impress rather than to last.
The waitress was busy with a table of older men who seemed to be arguing about fishing, so I wandered toward a wall near the entrance that had caught my eye.
A collection of Polaroid photos was tacked up in neat rows, each one showing a different person holding an empty pie plate with a triumphant grin. Above the photos, hand-painted letters spelled out “Wall of Fame,” and a small sign below explained the tradition. When you finished a slice of the Ridge Diner’s famous huckleberry pie, you earned your place on the wall.
My lips curled up as I studied the faces.
There was a mix of families with sticky-fingered kids, adventure seekers suited up in high-tech gear, and people who had to be locals, the weathered mountain folk whose gear wasn’t shiny, but whose faces had stories to tell.
And then my gaze snagged on one photo in particular.
The man in the picture was… something else entirely.
He had dark hair and a thick scruff of beard, and his flannel shirt strained across his chest.
He looked solid. Grounded, like the kind of man who could build a cabin with his bare hands and then carry you over the threshold without breaking a sweat.
I might have swooned in place a little just looking at him.
A business card was tucked next to his photo. I leaned closer to read it.
Grayson Ford. Trail Guide. River Guide. Wilderness Survival Guide. Botany and Ecology Tours. Search and Rescue.
I stared at the card, then back at the photo. Men like this didn’t actually exist in real life, did they?
He looked like he’d walked straight out of one of those wilderness survival movies, the kind where the rugged hero saves the city girl from a bear and then teaches her how to start a fire with nothing but determination and smoldering eye contact.
What would it be like to befuckedby a man like that?
The thought came unbidden, and I let it linger longer than I should have.
Heat rushed to my cheeks as I imagined those broad shoulders over me, his solid weight pressing me into a mattress, calloused hands gripping my hips hard enough to leave marks.
I yanked my gaze away from the photo and laughed, composing myself. I was really letting my imagination go wild today.
But I wasn’t here to pick up a man. Just a stack of pancakes.
A bulletin board hung next to the photos, covered in handwritten notices that said things like, “Free!!! Ornery Pig Needs Rehoming,” and “Miniature Goats For Sale. One hundred bucks each. Two goats minimum.”
Why would you need to buy two?
“See something you like?”
I jumped and spun around. A woman stood behind me, maybe in her sixties, with silver hair pulled back in a practical bun and a knowing smile that made me feel completely transparent. She wore a flour-dusted apron and had the kind of sharp eyes that missed nothing.
“Hi there. I was just looking at the pie photos and the ads. Why do you need to buy two goats at a time?”
“They get lonely, hon. They’re pack animals like us.”
“Oh.”
Her smile widened. “I’m Marla Keegan. But folks around here mostly call me Ma. Welcome to the Ridge Diner.”
“I’m Amelia. Nice to meet you, Ma.” I already liked her vibe. “This place is wonderful.”
“Been here forty-two years. Plan to be here forty-two more if my knees hold out.” She glanced at the wall of Polaroids, her eyes landing on the picture of the mountain hottie I’d been examining, then back at me with a glint in her eye that made me nervous. “You know, it’s your lucky day, Amelia. All my booths are broken this morning.”
I blinked. “Broken?” How could that be my lucky day?
