He chuckled. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Have a good day, Cole.”
“I’m certainly going to try.” He watched her walk off to take more orders, her hips swaying slightly in worn denim. She might not have planned on staying, but she sure seemed to be settling in just fine.
****
Aftyn shook her head and made her way to where Peterson sat, filling his mug from the carafe.
“Good morning, Mr. Peterson. Would you like to order breakfast?”
He glanced around at the bustling room, fingers drumming against the tabletop. “This place doesn’t stop, does it?”
“It slows down after lunch.”
“I’d like to see your version of slow.” He grinned.
Slick. Leave it to Cole. Peterson was a city slicker through and through, crisp suit, designer watch catching the morning light. He clearly knew he was good-looking, but this was not his world. Still, Clifton didn’t judge. They accepted everyone, even outsiders with soft hands and cologne that entered a room ahead of them.
“I found some things I’d like to share with you. Do you get a break soon?”
Aftyn glanced at the door as the bell jingled again, another wave of ranchers, young mothers with toddlers, elderly couples who’d been coming here for decades. She shook her head.
“Not for a while. Have breakfast and we’ll see. If not, come back after my shift.”
“Alright. Egg white omelet, please.”
“Bacon? Sausage?”
“No thanks.” He patted his flat stomach with a grimace.
She pinned the order to the wheel and tapped the bell. Owen had it up in minutes, the eggs glistening under the kitchen lights. She carried the plate over, its warmth seeping through her fingertips.
“Enjoy.”
He cut into it, took a bite, and groaned. “Fantastic.”
“Great.” She topped off his mug and got back to work.
Later, clearing sticky plates from emptied tables, she slipped into the kitchen and noticed Cole was gone. No goodbye. Her chest tightened, but she’d been pulled in three directions and missed him leaving. She hoped to hear from him later.
Peterson was already at the register, wallet out. She made change, coins clinking into his palm.
“I’ll be back later,” he said.
“Alright.” She nodded as he walked out, the bell jingling overhead, then cleared his table. No tip. She clenched her jaw, shook her head. All that flash and he couldn’t spare a dollar.
“Slick,” she muttered. “Cheap, too.”
At one-thirty Aftyn untied her apron, fingers stiff from scrubbing dried ketchup off laminate tables. The bell jingled and Peterson walked in, settling onto a counter stool. Connie poured him a coffee without being asked. He wrapped both hands around the mug and took a careful sip.
Aftyn pushed through the kitchen door and rounded the counter. His cologne, something woodsy and expensive, cut through the lingering smell of frying oil.
“Could we get a booth?” His voice was low. “A little more private.”
She led him to the back corner where the fluorescent light flickered. He slid across the vinyl seat before she could, leaving her standing. She pressed her lips together and settled in across from him. Country manners had their merits.
“Your sister’s working at the liquor shop on Clifton Street,” he said, glancing around. “She started working there this morning. Carried a brown bag lunch. I’m going to follow her this evening. The hours are ten to six.”
