Page 52

I was mid-order at table four, jotting down extra gravy and no onions, when movement flickered at the edge of my vision, and my stomach sank.

Sterling was sliding into one of the booths in my section with a wide, sexy grin, like this wasn’t a deliberate act of sabotage. He settled back against the vinyl, his eyes already on me.

I finished the order, tore off the ticket, and then, because I was a professional adult, I walked over.

“Well, hello there,” he said pleasantly. “I’ve been hearing raving reviews about the service in here.”

“What can I get you?” I asked flatly, trying to sound professional and less like his aura was going to make me pass out.

He tilted his head as if he was thinking hard about my question. “I’ll take an entire cherry pie.”

I blinked. “An…entire pie?”

“Yes.”

“For yourself.”

“I’m a growing boy.”

My gaze flicked down to his crotch before my brain could stop it.

I bet he was growing…I mean…fucking hell.

I snapped my eyes back up, heat racing down my neck. “Right. Well. I’ll go get you your whole pie,” I said, my voice pitching just a little too high as I backed away.

His grin widened. “Looking forward to it.”

I turned and marched straight to the display case, muttering encouragement under my breath while Dot watched with narrowed eyes as if she already sensed disaster. I slid one of the pies out carefully…reverently, because even I could tell this lattice crust was a work of art.

I balanced it on the tray and started back toward his booth, determined to make it there without incident.

I’d almost made it. I was so close I could practically taste victory—right up until my foot caught on that damned rug. “Oh⁠—”

The tray tipped. Time slowed. My soul left my body and hovered politely above the scene.

The entire diner seemed to inhale at once as the pie launched forward in a perfect, horrifying arc. It hit Sterling square in the chest with a catastrophic splat—cherries exploding, crust crumbling, filling the booth with sticky red chaos and absolute devastation.

The whole diner went silent as Sterling stared down at himself in shock.

I stood frozen, the tray still clutched in my hands like it might somehow defend me in court. “I—I’m so sorry.”

Sterling slid out of the booth slowly, his gaze lifting back to mine and locking there like he had no intention of ever letting it go.

Then he reached down, curled his fingers into the hem of his ruined shirt, and dragged it off his body in one smooth motion. Fabric peeled away. Muscles shifted and flexed under sun-warmed skin. A streak of cherry filling trailed down his chest like it was begging to be licked away.

Around me, the diner collectively forgot how to behave. There was a sharp inhale. Then another. Someone actually whimpered.

I swallowed.

His chest was criminal…every ridge and valley of muscle was defined like he’d been forged for sin. The faint dusting of dark hair trailed down his abdomen, disappearing into the low waistband of his jeans. I didn’t think eight-packs existed, but he was proving science wrong.

My mouth went dry. My thighs clenched.

He glanced down at the cherry filling smeared across his skin, bright red streaks that stood out obscenely against all that golden muscle, and I watched open-mouthed as he dragged one long finger through the mess, scooping it up. Slowly, and without breaking eye contact with me, he brought it to his mouth and sucked it clean, his tongue flicking over the pad of his finger.

A low, involuntary moan escaped my throat.

“Mmm,” he rumbled. “That’s fucking good pie.”