Page 22 of Rushing Into Love

She smiled up at me and I noticed she had a light smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

“That’s your dad, then?” she asked, recognition dawning on her face.

“Yeah. Call him Pops. Everyone around here does.”

She blushed again and was so damn cute that without even thinking I said, “I was actually finishing up here. Have you eaten yet? Want to grab some breakfast?” I hitched my hands into the back pockets of my jeans.

“No. I mean, I haven’t eaten. I’d love to eat! Yeah, that would be great.”

“Cool. Let me go tell my dad I’m leaving,” I motioned to the supply room. “I’ll be right back.”

I hustled to the back of the store, where my dad was cutting into a box from the latest shipment.

“Dad, do you mind if I grab a quick bite with Bree?” I tried to keep my face neutral—I didn’t feel like playing twenty questions just then.

Glancing up from the box, he raised his eyebrows, but nodded ‘okay.’

“Thanks!” I gave him a quick wave and blew out of there.

Grabbing the door for Bree, we headed out onto Main Street. A warm yellow glow backlit the orange canopy of maples shading the square.

“It’s beautiful here,” Bree said, glancing up at the trees. “California doesn’t really have autumn.”

“Texas didn’t really either, unless you went out to Hill Country. It was mostly either real hot or real cold,” I said. “I like it better here.”

We walked side by side, her arm brushing up against mine every once in a while. Her skin was soft and warm and she smelled like vanilla. Even with her injury, Bree moved gracefully, like a dancer. She had a completely different vibe than Shayna, who’d been more of a strutter, with a heavy emphasis on hip action.

“I thought we’d go to the 5-to-9’er,” I said, gesturing to the vintage-looking diner on the other side of the road. “It’s been here since the 1920’s and was named for its hours. It’s low-key, but classic. I think you’ll like it.”

“Sounds good.” She smiled as I grabbed her hand and we crossed the road, dodging the one oncoming truck that counted as traffic. Her hand fit in mine, so I held onto it, even as I opened the door to the diner.

“Hey, Milly,” I called out as we entered. Milly was in her mid-fifties and had stood behind that counter, wearing the same old-fashioned baby blue diner uniform complete with white apron, for all my life. Well, as long as I could remember, anyhow.

“Hey there, Ryder. How’re you?” She smiled over at me, not even bothering to hide the not-unfriendly once-over she was giving Bree.

“Great, I’m great. Mind if we take that booth?” I nodded to a table in the far back corner of the restaurant, tucked in between the picture window and the kitchen.

“Not at all, it’s all yours.”

I led Bree to the back of the crowded diner, saying hi to various people as we walked by. I tried to walk quickly, while still smiling and being friendly to everyone. It was a skill I’d picked up in the NFL and it still came in handy. Townsfolk loved to talk, especially about football, and all I wanted to do right now was duck into the back booth with Bree without setting into motion the Peachtree Grove rumor mill.

“So, I strongly recommend the eggs and corned beef hash,” I said as we tucked into the back booth, sitting opposite one another. I handed her a sticky plastic menu. “The silver dollar pancakes are also very good.” Then in a whisper, “I would try to avoid anything too healthy; it’s not really a specialty here.”

She giggled, a sweet, melodic laugh. “Okay, no problem. I’m kind of over the whole kale phase, anyway.”

Milly came by to take our order—pancakes for Bree, the egg special for me.

“That’ll be right up, kids,” Milly said, grabbing our menus, then scurrying off towards the kitchen.

“I’m glad I ran into you this morning,” I said, leaning slightly forward towards Bree. She flashed me a warm smile.

“Me too.” She took a sip of her iced water and I stretched my legs out under the table. Our knees brushed together and heat flashed through me. It had been quite a while since I’d eaten breakfast with a woman other than my mother.

I wanted to know more about her—specifically, her relationship status and her travel itinerary—but didn’t know how to bring it up. She’d seemed uncomfortable last night and I wasn’t that guy, pushing an agenda. I figured she’d tell me when she was good and ready.

“So—what’s your story, Ryder McCauliffe?” she asked, leveling her gaze at me.

I shifted in my seat. “Whattaya want to know?”

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