Page 11 of Matchmaking On The Menu

“Afternoon. What’ll it be? Coffee first? Or are we being bold today?”

My gaze lifts automatically and everything else just stops. Thought. Breath. The slow, steady rhythm I’d found as I walked in here. It was all gone.

Because the woman standing beside my table…

Jesus.

Her eyes are the first thing that hit me. Blue, but not just blue. Bright and clear. They don’t just catch the light, they hold it, pull it in and keep it there. I forget what I was about to say. Forget what I was about to order. Hell, I forget all basic human function.

My lungs stall like they’ve hit a wall, chest tightening in a way that has nothing to do with earlier and everything to do with the fact that I’m suddenly very aware of her standing right there, looking at me expectantly. And I’m staring. Definitely staring.

Shit.

3

DANNICA

WAITRESS LOSES ALL PROFESSIONALISM OVER CHEESEBURGER AND MYSTERIOUS STRANGER

“Now, Mike, you know I wouldn’t be calling if I got the whole order.” I keep my tone polite, even though he’s already talking over me on the other end. Like I’m the problem here. Like I misplaced a whole damn case of oil. “I’m telling you, it’s an entire case. Count your stock if you don’t believe me. You should have extra.”

I fan myself with the delivery note, but it’s pointless. All it’s doing is moving heat from one place to another. The fryer’s been going since dawn, oil popping, heat feeling dense in the small space, and my spine is officially in talks about early retirement. My feet ache like they belong to someone else, and honestly, I’d give them back if I could. I envision sitting down and detaching them, pretending they were never part of the deal. Maybe even swapping them for bigger boobs.

“Do you have any idea how much oil I carry?” he snaps. “It would take me all day.”

I tip my head back for a second, staring at the ceiling like it might offer divine intervention. Nothing in Boudica Springs can ever be simple. That would be too easy. And apparently we don’t do easy here.

“I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t have it.”

A soft gasp that doesn’t belong in a kitchen comes from the pass, and it puts me on high alert immediately.

I glance up.

Mary has turned the exact shade of the tomato soup waiting to go to table six.

“What’s with her?” Llewellen, our fry cook, asks as he grabs an order ticket.

“Oh, that?” Imani’s voice cuts in from the booth nearest the pass. Imani Johnson is the owner of the only salon in town worth trusting with your edges. Her always immaculate braids are pulled into a long, sleek ponytail that falls over one shoulder. She’s wrestling an open packet of sugar from five-year-old Naveah. Royal Jr., Naveah’s twin brother, just slips his sister another. Without skipping a beat, she intercepts the contraband exchange and gives her twins a scathing look that has them settling down.

I glance over to where she’s staring pointedly.

“That,” she continues, nodding toward Mary, “is the face of a woman who just saw a problem she can’t handle emotionally.”

I find myself walking out of the kitchen.

Oh.

Oh my.

There’s a ridiculously gorgeous man standing at the entryway. It’s like sin just clocked in for the lunch shift. Dark hair, a slight stoop that should read awkward but just makes him look more intentional. It makes me wonder if he’s choosing exactly how much of himself to show. He’s calm. Observant. The kind of man who doesn’t just look, but takes things in. Perhaps even cataloging the diner for later.

My stomach does something completely unnecessary, dipping and twisting in a really delicious way, and my gaze betrays me with a slow, scandalous sweep like I’m starring in a low-budget rom-com no one asked for.

Black boots. Blue jeans.

Pause.

Longer pause.