Page 20 of Roaring Flames

Seven

IZZY

Apparently, all a girl needs in life is a single hour of destroying the ever-loving shit out of a dozen or so items.

Every second that passes seems to lift a weight off my shoulders. The tension doesn’t completely abate, but it’s no longer as suffocating as it once was. I can almost…breathe.

After the last item has been thoroughly destroyed, I step out of the room, remove my safety clothes, and thank Ted profusely.

“Come back anytime, kid.” The older man flashes me a wink before slapping his hand down on Ansel’s shoulder.

He whispers something to my new friend—too low for me to hear—and Ansel’s cheeks erupt into flames. Both men flick their eyes to me before quickly looking away.

“What was that about?” I ask Ansel as soon as we step outside.

The air is chilly, but the sun does its job well, reaching out with spindly rays to warm my skin. I still need my jacket, but the weather isn’t as bad as it could be.

“Nothing,” Ansel answers quickly.Tooquickly.

I arch an inquiring eyebrow at him, but he focuses straight ahead with steadfast determination. However, insteadof heading immediately towards his car, he surprises me by skirting to the side and stopping in front of another small building that readsRosie’s Diner.

“Hungry?” he asks me.

I place a hand to my stomach, which suddenly resembles a bottomless pit. “Starving,” I confess. “Who knew destroying computers could work up such an appetite?”

Ansel grants me a shy smile as he opens the door for me to step inside.

The restaurant is nearly empty—no surprise, considering the time of day—and boasts red booths, checkered floorboards, and jukeboxes. A middle-aged waitress in a pink blouse and white skirt nods her head in greeting from where she stands behind the counter.

“Take a seat anywhere, and I’ll be with you two in a moment.”

Ansel instinctively grabs my hand—ohmygawd, he’s holding my hand—and leads me to a booth farthest away from the few patrons present. He slides into the booth, realizes he’s still holding my hand, and then releases me as if I burned him. A rosy flush paints both his cheeks as he grabs the menus out from behind the napkin dispenser.

“Errr…sorry.” He practically shoves a menu at me as I claim the seat opposite him.

A part of me wants to tease him and relish the red coloring his face, but I decide to change the subject.

“So…have you been here before?” I scan the menu quickly.

It’s early enough that they’re still serving breakfast, so I settle on pancakes, eggs, and bacon.

Ansel seems relieved at the topic change and closes his menu to give me his full attention. “Unfortunately more often than I’d like. I went through a period last year where I would spend most days with my uncle. He would come here every day after work. I think I have the menu memorized by now.”

There’s a lot to unpack in that statement—mainly why he would spend so much time with his uncle—but I push the questions aside for the time being.

“So what’s good? I was going to get the pancake platter, but?—”

“Go with the French toast,” Ansel interjects. “I’m not normally a French toast type of guy, but I have to say that Freddie in the kitchen has a magic touch?—”

“That sounds dirty,” I deadpan, and he throws me a look.

“You need to get your mind cleansed, Illy.” He chuckles softly, and my brain short-circuits.

Not because of what he said, but because of what he called me.

Illy.

I can’t remember the last time anyone used that nickname with me.

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