She slipped into the kitchen during a lull and dropped onto the stool by the prep counter, letting out a long breath that ruffled her bangs. Owen glanced over from the griddle, spatula in hand.
“Harder than you remember?”
“I waited tables from eighteen to twenty to pay for school and I thought I remembered what it was like.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “I was wrong. I’ll head back out in a second. I don’t want Connie thinking I’ve disappeared.”
Owen chuckled. “She won’t think that. The morning rush hits hard. Those folks out there have been coming in for years. They know how it goes.”
Connie pushed through the kitchen doors, cheeks flushed, cherry apron slightly askew. “That they do.”
“I’ll get back to it.” Aftyn slid off the stool, wincing as her calves protested.
“No, hon. Take a breath. You’ve been running since dawn.” Connie’s eyes crinkled at the corners.
“Is every morning like this?”
Connie and Owen exchanged a look, then both laughed.
“Every single one,” Connie said. “Lunch is busy too, but nothing like this. The ranchers are out working by then. Dinner slows way down.” Shenodded toward the door. “That clawfoot tub will help. Trust me.”
“I discovered that last night. I nearly fell asleep in it.”
“Best investment I ever insisted on when we built our house. Owen thought I was crazy.”
“I didn’t say crazy,” Owen called from the griddle. “I said expensive.”
Aftyn laughed. “I understand it completely now. I’d fight for one too.”
“Stop by Randi’s Scented Haven across the street when you get a chance. She makes bath salts, soaps, and candles. That tub becomes a whole different experience.”
“Once my wallet has something in it, that’s my first stop.”
“Every shop in this town is locally owned.” Connie glanced out toward the dining room. “We became a tourist town almost by accident. Some people come to visit and never leave.”
“I’m starting to see why.”
Connie smiled. “I’d better get those plates out.”
“Right behind you.”
The rest of the shift passed in a blur of coffee refills and clinking plates. By the time it was over, Aftyn could barely lift her feet on the stairs up to the apartment. She smiled thinking about the advance Connie had given her. Tomorrow she’d finally be able to pick up a few things she needed.
Later, as twilight turned the windows purple, Aftyn sat on the burgundy sofa and worked at the knots in her calves. The cushions were soft and forgiving. Seventeen years since she’d waited tables, but the muscle memory was coming back. So was the satisfaction of it, the clinking silverware, thesnatches of strangers’ conversations, the particular rhythm of a busy room. She’d forgotten how much she liked people, really liked them, not as patients to be monitored and charted but as human beings with opinions about the weather and strong feelings about their coffee.
She groaned her way to her feet and shuffled to the door, checking all three locks plus the knob. A lot of hardware for such a friendly town, but not her mystery to solve. She made a mental note to ask Connie about it when the moment was right.
The tub was waiting.
She ran it hot, sank in slowly, and let the ache seep out of her. The bathroom was small, but the ceiling was high, and someone years ago had painted it the palest shade of blue, like the inside of a cloud. She stared up at it until her eyes closed.
Connie had set her up with the five to one shift, weekdays only, the weekend girls having that covered. It was perfect. Long afternoons free to explore the town once she had something to spend. For now, it was window shopping, her nose pressed to glass, mentally furnishing a life she wasn’t staying long enough to live. Her bank account was almost as empty as the refrigerator, but for the first time in weeks she didn’t feel like she was drowning.
She felt, oddly, like she might be exactly where she was supposed to be.
For now, anyway.
Chapter Three
Cole entered the house, sighing as the air conditioning washed over his skin. Damn, the heat was merciless this year, the kind that baked a man’s bones until they felt brittle. Same thought, different summer.
