I think.
Honestly, I can't remember having one. But surely I have.
The morning routine ghost-walk. Smile. Take the order. Serve the plate. Wave them out. Wipe the table. I could do this blindfolded, my hands moving while my mind is miles away.
Today, customers keep interrupting the rhythm to ask if I'm alright, giving me these soft, worried looks when I answer yes, thank you, and move on to the next thing. It's inefficient, all this checking on me.
I’m stacking dishes when the bell rings again.
The electricity moves over my skin before I've even turned around. That specific voltage that my body has always reserved exclusively for him. The one that usually fires up every nerve ending I have and sends my better judgment on an extended vacation.
I force my lips into a cheerful curve and call out a greeting, treating him with the same bland enthusiasm I’d give a tourist, before turning back to my guest.
I pull his mug from under the counter without thinking about it. Silverware. Carry it to the club's usual booth on autopilot. He brushes against me when he slides in, and I wait for the full-body betrayal my nervous system usually serves up without asking permission.
There's a flicker. Just a small lick of heat at the edges.
The ice holds.
Huh.
So that’s the secret. Months of my body betraying me, and the fix is this easy. Let him shatter something inside me, and suddenly nothing can touch me.
Fantastic. Just perfect. Couldn’t ask for more.
“Do you want your normal?” I ask, pouring the coffee with a steady hand.
"What I want is for you to talk to me." The frustration running under his voice is quiet, but it's there.
Poor baby.
I give him that plastic, high-gloss smile. "Sorry, sir. That's not what I get paid for. I'm sure there are plenty of locals who'd be happy to keep you company."
He doesn’t even have to move two feet. I could throw a spoon in any direction and hit a woman he’s already been inside who would jump at a second round.
His fingers snap around my wrist—an anchor of rough, familiar heat. The sudden temperature spike under my skin makes me freeze. It’s a glitch in my system. I don’t want to look, but he’s not giving me a choice. He wants my eyes, and Tomcat usually gets what he wants.
Pathetic. Obsessed chick.
The words are a rhythmic pulse in my head. I wait him out, keeping my face as flat and unreadable as a blank screen.
“What’s going on, Goldie?”
His voice is low, cautious. The kind of tone you use when you’re trying to talk a feral animal out of a corner. He’s not wrong. I am feral. But right now, the animal is just… tired.
I tilt my head, studying the scars on his knuckles. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“This. You’re acting differently. You aren't yourself.”
I want to scream. Why does everyone in this town think they’re entitled to my sunshine? People are allowed bad days. It's practically a human right. Sheesh.
A smirk pulls at the corner of my mouth. “God forbid a girl have an off day, huh.”
“Is that what this is? The entire diner can feel your off day, Goldie.”
Hm. Mask must be slipping then.
“Well, then. Let me just smile and make everyone else happy, shall I?” I pull my wrist free. I can't stand his touch right now, which is its own specific tragedy. “I’ll get your order in.”
