I turned around. He was leaning against the back counter with his arms crossed, a mug of coffee in one hand.
Up close, without interview panic fogging my brain, I realized he was younger than I’d first thought. Not young, but not old either. There was just something steady about him. The kind of quiet stillness people usually get after they’ve been through something and come out the other side.
“Thank you,” I said. “And I’m sorry about the—I really did think you were?—”
“I know what you thought.”
He wasn’t laughing at me. If anything, he looked…pleased.
“You did great.”
I didn’t know what to do with that. So I grabbed my bag from the stool and headed for the door before I could somehow embarrass myself a second time before breakfast.
“Riley.”
The way he said my name made me stop. Like he’d tested it out and decided he liked the sound of it.
I turned.
“The hiking trails around here are worth seeing,” he said. “If you get a free afternoon. Wildflowers are out right now.”
He took a sip of coffee, watching me over the rim of the mug.
“This is the best week of the year for them.”
For a moment, I just looked at him. Then I nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
I stepped out into the cool mountain morning, the smell of coffee still clinging to my clothes. And I told myself very firmly that the flutter in my chest was just relief about the job, not anything to do with the man who’d been watching me since the moment I walked in.
I almost believed it.
2
HARLAN
Itold myself I was coming back for the coffee.
Bobbi’s coffee was good. It had always been good. That was a fact completely independent of whether a particular dark-haired woman in a white blouse might be the one pouring it.
The Pancake House was already running full when I walked in the next morning. Festival season always brought people into town days before the festival itself—hikers, day-trippers, couples who’d seen the mountains online and wanted their own version of them.
Bobbi’s tables were full. The counter had two open stools. The kitchen noise carried all the way to the door. I took a seat at the counter and picked up a menu I didn’t need.
Riley came out of the kitchen carrying two plates and a ticket tucked under her arm. Even in the middle of a full floor, she moved like she had a system. Efficient without looking rushed.
She set the plates down at a booth, said something that made the couple laugh, and was already turning back before they finished thanking her. She’d clearly been doing this a long time—long enough that waiting tables had become muscle memory.She moved through the room like she knew where everything was going to be before she got there.
Lauralie said something to her from the end of the counter. Riley nodded, pivoted, and grabbed a carafe on her way past without breaking stride. She made it to me eventually.
“Harlan,” she said. The way she said my name was careful, like she was still deciding what to do with me. “What can I get you?”
“Just coffee and the short stack.”
She turned the mug over in front of me and poured. I watched her, and I didn’t bother pretending I wasn’t watching.
Her hair was pulled back for work. Two buttons undone at the collar of her blouse. There was a small scar on her chin—barely visible—that I hadn’t noticed the day before.
I noticed it now.
