Patty’son 5th is aggressively cheerful for this hour of the morning. Mint-green booths line the floor in neat rows, their vinyl seats gleaming under overhead lights that feel just a little too bright for how exhausted I am. Every table has its own mini-jukebox perched on it with chrome edges dulled from years of use. The walls are crowded with a mix of retro signs and framed ads that promise milkshakes, burgers, and happiness in equal measure.
Echo holds the door open for me, and as I slip past him, my shoulder brushes his chest. It’s impossible not to notice how solid he is. He smells masculine and woody, like he always does, but somehow it feels wildly out of place in a place that serves pancakes 24/7. My body wants to linger in it, and I have to consciously force myself to keep moving.
Behind me, Echo pauses and his attention shifts fromme to the restaurant surrounding us. His gaze moves slowly, taking everything in. The emergency exits. The staff. The handful of early-morning regulars eating their meals. When he finally moves forward, it’s with the same unhurried confidence he always has, and I fall in line beside him.
We slide into a booth near the window, and he has me take the seat facing away from the door. He sits across from me, folding himself into the tiny booth. His knees are angled awkwardly, his shoulders are crowding the vinyl, and his dark designer suit looks completely at odds with the mint-green seats.
He picks up a laminated menu curling at the edges, and I fight back a smile.
“What?” He asks.
“You look ridiculous.”
He cocks a brow. “Okay, Bedhead Bambi.”
My hands fly to my hair. Now he’s the one fighting a smile.
“Relax. I was just joking.”
“You joke?”
“Occasionally,” he says. “I’m very selective about my audience.”
I snort before I can stop myself. “Lucky me.”
The corner of his mouth tips up and I feel myself smiling back.
A waitress appears at our table, holding a notepad in her hand. She’s a pretty woman, probably a few years younger than me, with a high ponytail, winged eyeliner, and a bright smile.
“Morning,” she says brightly. “What can I get you two?”
Echo looks to me.
“Coffee, please and can I also order the blueberry pancakes, but with no syrup?”
The waitress nods, scribbles it down, then looks at Echo. “And for you?”
“I’ll do the same as her, but with syrup.”
When she leaves, Echo tilts his head at me. “No syrup?”
“I don’t like the fake stuff.” I say. “Too sweet.”
“Noted.”
I narrow my eyes. “You don’t need to file away facts about me like that.”
“I absolutely do,” he says calmly. “What kind of future husband would I be if I didn’t?”
I shake my head, but I’m smiling again. Against my will.
The coffee arrives first. I add cream and sugar to mine, while Echo keeps his black. The food comes out a few minutes later.
Our plates hit the table, and I instantly deflate. Both stacks of pancakes are drenched in syrup.
It’s not a big deal. It’s not like it’ll kill me, and I can try to scrape most of it off. I pick up my fork, already preparing to deal with it quietly.
“Excuse me, miss.” Echo says, calling out to our waitress and stopping her short. “Hers was supposed to have no syrup.”
