Page 20 of Tell Me Again

“That guy’s the same one who left his wallet the other day,” she says.

“Y-yeah.” My voice cracks on the single word, and that gets me another look.

“He gonna eat?”

“I think so.”

She nods again, shifts over a few feet to turn the griddle back on, and then gets back to work on her pie.

And I take another deep breath and head back out into the dining room, prepared this time. Mostly. Kinda.

He’s sitting there at the counter, on the stool closest to me. He’s taken his coat off, and he’s wearing this black shirt with the sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows, showing off his forearms, and god, nope, I was not prepared for that.

Fuck. He’s . . . really gorgeous.

I mean, of course I’ve seen good-looking men before, so maybe it’s more to do with the fact that he was the first guy I was ever attracted to. Maybe that’s why I just can’t tear my eyes away as he looks up from where his hands are folded together, resting on the counter just in front of him. Or maybe it’s because of this fucking fluttery thing my heart wants to do. Or it’s that fucking weirdo magnetism shit.

Then he smiles. And god, now it’s ten times better. Or worse. I mean worse. Very, very worse. I almost stumble, grabbing onto the wall just before I’d have made a total ass of myself and face-planted for all to see.

Fuck again. Menu. He needs a menu. The faster I get him a menu, the faster he can order and then eat and then get the fuck out of here so I can go back to—

Is that what I really want?

All the air leaves my lungs, and I spin around and grab a menu from the stack sitting near the cash register. Menu. He needs a menu. Customer service. I’m a professional.

I paste another smile on my face, though I’m sure it looks as strained as it feels, really, and I turn around.

“Here you go. You want some coffee?” My voice does not crack this time. Or squeak. Or sound an octave lower than it should.

“Yeah, sure. Thanks,” he says quietly as he takes the menu. He blinks several times and lowers his eyes. “Sorry to just show up like this.”

I’m not entirely sure what to say to that. So I just go to grab the coffee pot again from the kitchen, and when I return, he’s staring at the menu, his jaw tight. My heart does that funny something in my chest, something fluttery and warm, and I resist the huge urge to reach out, run my fingers along his jawline, feel the smoothness of his clean-shaven skin. God.

I stop in front of him, flip over the coffee mug that’s there, and fill it up. My hand is totally not shaking. Really.

“What’s, uh...” He trails off and glances up at me from the menu.

God, there’s absolutely no way he came here for the food. I can see it in his eyes.

“Uh, well, Mel makes a really great omelet,” I say. I think I’m answering the question he’d been about to ask. “Like, uh, back home. Like they made at Sunrise. Remember? You’d order the Denver omelet and have them add the hash browns inside the omelet itself?”

There’s a twitch in his lips, and then he’s smiling up at me again. I manage some sort of smile back this time, but it hurts. A lot. Because I can fucking feel the warmth in his gaze. I can feel it, and I miss it. I miss that. I miss him. My best friend. Shit.

“I do remember,” he says, his voice soft. He coughs to clear his throat and lowers his eyes back to the menu. “That’s, uh...”

“This one here.” I step a little closer and reach out to point to the omelet on the menu. “The Loaded Western Omelet. It’s also got avocado and bacon. It’s, uh”—I pull my hand back and straighten up—“it’s really good like that, but you can get it however you want it made.”

“Sounds perfect, actually. Thanks. I’ll, uh, have that.”

I nod, and he hands me back the menu.

“Sourdough?”

“Yeah. Please. Thanks.” There’s his smile again. I’m suddenly really warm.

“Yeah, no problem.”

And before I lose my shit completely, I spin around and head back into the kitchen.

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