Her stomach growls in argument.
I chuckle, brushing a rogue strand of dark curls behind her ear. “Sure you are. Come on.”
I slide her legs around to the front of the seat and strap her in. Her gaze tracks the motions, a curious but happy expression on her face. Rounding the van, I jump into the driver’s seat. Glancing behind to double-check we have everything, I fire up the VW and slide on my aviators. “How do you feel about pancakes?”
Pulling her bag from her shoulder and dumping it in the footwell, she looks up. “I adore pancakes.”
“Good to know.”
We head for town. I know exactly the place to take her.
The little diner off the first highway exit is bustling. The place is a local secret and was one of my favorite spots to eat after the Cold Lake event before the accident. It feels like an age since I’ve been here. We walk through the red double doors, and the retro diner is still the same as it was over eighteen months ago.
Red booths over black-and-white checkered floor. The silver counter is flanked by a long row of red upholstered barstools. Currently full.
The wait staff hurry around tending to booths and counter patrons alike. I steer Maggie toward a booth, and she drops into it before I take the seat opposite.
“This is nice.” She plucks up a plastic menu and opens it.
“Nope.” I take the menu from her and toss it to the side of the table.
“I was looking at that!” Her face is lit with mirth tangled with confusion.
“No need.” I raise a hand to indicate we’re ready to order. “I got you.”
A young waitress comes over, pad and pencil in hand already.
“Hey, what can I get ya?” She smiles at Maggie before giving me a somewhat dimmer smile.
I hand her the menus. “Two servings of Sunday pancakes and a pot of coffee, please.”
“Sure thing. Won’t be long.”
Maggie lifts one elegant brow. “An entire pot of coffee?”
“Make up for the unwelcome visitor this morning.”
She shudders. “Don’t remind me. I’m terrified of those things.”
That part I got.
Five minutes later, the fluffiest, most amazing pancakes arrive with all the trimmings in small dishes around the edge of each plate. And as ordered, an entire pot of coffee is set down on the end of our table, followed by two mugs.
“Thank you,” I offer.
The young girl smiles at me before saying, “Enjoy your food.”
Maggie’s gaze tracks over the plate in front of her. “Wow, this looks... amazing.”
“They’re only the best pancakes in the entire country.”
“What? How do you know that?”
I point to her towering stack with my fork.
With narrowed playful eyes, she doesn’t take her gaze from me as she cuts a portion off and dips it into the maple syrup. When the pancakes slide over her tongue, surprise catches on her face. Her eyes flutter shut with a heady moan. I can’t help but think two things.
First, these really are the best pancakes in the whole country.
Second, that sweet fucking sound out of this beautiful woman is going to drive me crazy.
Thank fuck for pancake Sundays.
