1
RILEY
The Pancake House smelled like maple syrup and fresh coffee, and for one glorious second, standing in the doorway, I forgot to be terrified.
Then I remembered my bank account balance, and the terror came roaring back.
An hour ago, I’d been hunched over my phone in the parking lot of a gas station outside Knoxville, everything I owned stuffed into the back of my eleven-year-old Kia. That’s when I saw the listing.
Server Needed—Wildwood Valley Pancake House. Seasonal. Housing available. Start immediately.
I’d looked up the town, seen the mountains, and started driving.
It wasn’t exactly a plan. More like…a direction. And right now, a direction was the best I had.
My father’s voice had followed me the whole way up the mountain.
“A wildflower?”
You would’ve thought I’d carved something obscene into my skin instead of getting a tiny bloom barely bigger than a quarter,tucked low on my hip where no one would ever see it unless I showed them.
I got it the spring of my junior year of college. I wanted one thing in my life that was mine. Just mine. No committee vote, no scripture attached.
I told my parents when I came home that summer because I don’t lie. Not even when lying would’ve been the smarter life choice.
My mother had gone pale. My father had gone somewhere colder than pale—somewhere quiet and final. He’d stayed there. And that was the moment I realized something important.
I wasn’t going back.
I checked my reflection in the glass door before pushing inside the restaurant. Hair neat. Blouse tucked in. The closest thing to professional I could manage after two nights in a roadside motel and a gas-station breakfast that may or may not have been legally considered food.
I could do this.
I’d waitressed summers through high school before my father decided it wasn’t appropriate for a pastor’s daughter to be serving food to men at night. Which was funny, because men still managed to eat dinner whether I served it or not.
I knew how to carry plates. I knew how to smile. I knew how to make people feel taken care of.
And I really, really needed this job.
The dining room was empty—too early for the breakfast crowd—and at first I thought the whole place was empty too. Then I heard the scrape of metal on wood and noticed the pair of boots sticking out from behind the counter.
Someone was crouched down on the far side, half hidden, doing something to the cabinet under the register. I could see forearms resting on the floor, the hem of a flannel shirt, the kind of broad shoulders that took up space without apologizing for it.
I assumed it was the owner.
I have no idea why I assumed that. Maybe it was the calm way he worked. The quiet confidence of someone who clearly belonged here.
I squared my shoulders and walked up to the counter. “Good morning,” I said brightly. “I’m Riley Callahan. I’m here about the server position.”
The boots stopped moving.
Encouraged, I kept going.
“I know I’m a little early, but I wanted to make a good impression. And I have to say, this is exactly the kind of place I’ve been looking for. I’m a hard worker, I’m good with people, and I learn fast. I waitressed for two summers before college, so I know how to handle a rush and keep tables turning without making guests feel rushed. I’ve got references from both places if you need them.”
The man under the counter went very still.
At that point, I probably should have stopped talking. Instead, I continued because stopping felt more awkward.
