Page 5 of Tell Me Again

So fucking proud.

Fuck. I smack my hand against the steering wheel, and the truck’s engine sputters a bit but then resumes its uneven rumble.

I know what the fuck is wrong. I do. But I’m going to ignore it because I can’t fucking deal with it today. Last night nearly sent me over an edge that I really don’t need to step up to again. An edge that I hadn’t approached in a long, long time. All because he showed up.

So I’m going to ignore it. Pretend that I’m good, like how my truck’s decided to pretend it’s a nice reliable thing. I’m going to ignore it and go about my day and pretend that my once-upon-a-time best friend, whom I haven’t spoken with since his father caught us kissing in his room and kicked me out, didn’t just show up out of nowhere after ten years.

I sit up and put my seat belt on, then get heading into town. If I’m lucky today, maybe I won’t see him again. Maybe he just stopped in at the diner as he was passing through. Maybe he’s on his way to Garrington. Maybe he just stopped here in White Hills for the amazing food at Mel’s Diner. The fucking peach cobbler. I hear it’s incredible.

***

The diner is predictably busy almost all day, with a slight lull right in the middle of the afternoon. And it’s the usual. The customers are mostly locals whom I know, with a few others sprinkled in here and there, and the tips are good. The booths stay packed, so I don’t really have time to stop and think. There’s my luck at work again.

Mel sends me on a late lunch break at about two thirty, which leaves me just enough time to eat something and run out to my friend Angie’s house to let her old terrier out for a few minutes. I use the term “friend” a bit loosely. She’s more of an acquaintance. I don’t really have any friends. Decided they weren’t worth it a long time ago. But Angie’s helped me out more times than I can count, a bit like Mel, actually, and I still have this sense that I owe her. I’m sure she wouldn’t see it that way, but I do.

So, at two thirty, I grab a quick burger and then hop back in my truck—which is still pretending that it’s a good, dependable vehicle—drive the mile or so to Angie’s place, and let myself in.

“Pipes, time to go out, girl!”

The old dog answers with a half-hearted yip, and she drags herself off the couch and shuffles over to the back door. She knows the drill. I open up the door to let her out and check her water and food bowls while she does her business. There are a few dishes in the sink, so I also wash them while I’m waiting.

Like I said, I owe Angie.

I glance down the hallway as I dry the last dish and stick it in the cupboard. The door to what used to be my occasional bedroom is wide open. I think it’s Angie’s library now. The old futon I used to sleep on is folded up so it can be used as a couch. Or at least, last time I was in there, it was. I haven’t set foot in there for years now—not since Mel offered to let me rent her old mobile home when I was caught trying to sneak back into the diner late one night so I could sleep in the extra office. It’d been too fucking cold to sleep in my truck, and Angie had been out of town or something. She hadn’t trusted me enough then to let me stay when she wasn’t here, which I understand. I was a nineteen-year-old homeless high-school dropout, after all.

Piper scratches at the door to be let back in, and five minutes later, I’m in my truck again and heading toward the diner. I pull around the back of the building into my usual parking spot and then let myself in through the back door. No sooner have I taken off and hung up my coat than I hear Mel’s gruff voice coming from the front of the kitchen.

“Oh good, you’re back. Did you go all the way to fuckin’ Omaha for lunch? What took so long?”

I start to answer—to remind her that I’d only gotten about a half-hour break after an eight-hour shift with absolutely no other break and on what was supposed to be my only day off this week—but she keeps going, motioning toward her office.

“A customer left his wallet here last night. It’s in the safe. Black leather. Grab it for me, will ya?”

Before I can answer, she spins back around and disappears out into the dining room, grabbing a pot of coffee on her way. Always on the move. I’m amazed she has the energy at fifty-seven, but she’s been running this place for at least thirty years, and I can’t see her doing anything else.

I head into her office and scoot around behind her desk to the safe. I’m the only other person besides Mel who knows the code to open it, and she frequently threatens to cut my life short in the most horrendous ways if I tell anyone. But I know that’s just for show. I earned her trust a while back.

I input the code, pull open the door, and reach in to grab a plain, black leather wallet, which sits atop a lockbox and a pile of papers. Then I close the door again and make my way through the kitchen, toward the dining room.

Guess it’s gonna be this guy’s lucky day today too. Losing your wallet fucking sucks. But here at Mel’s Diner, we promise to take good care of your lost shit.

I round the corner from the kitchen into the dining room and see a man standing along the end of the counter, his back to me. He’s got one hand stuffed in the pocket of his jeans and the other running nervously through his hair. He looks tense. Poor dude, don’t worry. I got you.

“Ah, Mr.—” I open up the wallet and glance down. My stomach drops, and my feet quit moving. I might vomit. Again. I clear my throat with a cough that I know sounds as fake as it is. “Mr. Joshua... Miller?”

Chapter Four

Josh

Oh god. His voice is deep. And smooth. I heard it last night, but this is different. This time, it’s my name he’s saying. From only a couple of feet behind me.

And I can feel him—the heat of his body, his presence like a warmth I haven’t known in ten years. It surrounds me, reminding me of that day. Our kiss. God, that kiss. For a fleeting moment, I remember it—the feel of his lips on mine, caressing softly, my tongue sliding along his lower lip, and then his tongue venturing into my mouth, tasting and exploring. And his body pressed flush against me.

But the moment is over in an instant, crushed by the weight of the thousands of days since, the thousands of lies since. And by the weight of the moment the kiss had ended, when my father had burst into the room. The moment I’d made the worst decision of my life. It presses down on my chest, building quickly into a throbbing ache, even as I turn around to face him.

God, he’s even more gorgeous than I remember. Tall. Six foot four, maybe. And all muscle. His forearms look strong and thick, and his biceps bulge against the short sleeves of his blue T-shirt. And god, that stubble and those dark-brown eyes—it’s gotta be the sexiest look I’ve ever seen.

My throat suddenly feels dry.

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