Page 42 of Taming Waves

“You hungry?” he asks.

“It’s late,” I say.

“Technically, it’s early,” he points out.

“Semantics. It’s late for us,” I say.

“Come on. Let me take you to breakfast,” he says when we reach my car. “You know you’re just going to go home and eat a Pop-Tart.”

I open my mouth to argue, and he steps closer.

“We both know you have a stash of fatty, sugar-laden toaster pastries.”

“Pop-Tarts are amazing,” I say.

“They are, but I’m in the mood for real food. Come on. Don’t make me eat at Waffle Castle alone.”

My stomach growls at the mention of Waffle Castle.

It’s the only all-night diner on the island. It sits at the end of the Westend Bridge and serves breakfast twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. The building is old, the red pleather seats of the booths are cracked and peeling, and the same four women have been working the night shift since we were teenagers, but you won’t find a better pecan waffle, omelet, or greasy hash browns anywhere on the planet.

Parker grins at the sound.

“Fine. It is on my way home. I’ll meet you there,” I agree.

“I would like three over-easy eggs, sausage links, extra-crispy hash browns, and rye toast. The lady will have a ham and cheese omelet and hash browns with onions, and we will share a pecan waffle.”

We hand our menus to the waitress, and Parker pours each of us a cup of coffee from the carafe she left on the table. I add cream and sugar to my cup.

Parker watches as I take my first sip.

“Mmm,” I say.

He grins. “Good, huh?”

I shake my head. “No, it’s terrible.”

“What?” He picks up his mug and takes a big gulp. “It tastes as good as ever to me,” he replies.

“That’s because it has always been terrible. We can tell the difference now that we have real coffee shops on the island,” I explain.

“You mean fancy coffee.”

“I mean coffee that isn’t from the bottom of a pot and has grounds floating in it.”

He shakes his head. “You’ve turned into a coffee snob.”

“It was bound to happen. That first sip of espresso with steamed milk, and I was an instant addict.”

The waitress returns with our food, and we dig in.

“Now, this,” I say, pointing at my plate, “is good.”

“Thank God you haven’t turned into a food snob too,” he teases.

“Never,” I declare before shoving a huge forkful into my mouth.

The diner is quiet this morning. A couple of men are seated at the counter, and another couple occupies a booth on the opposite side of the room. Parker quickly devours his food and starts loading the waffle with butter and syrup in the middle of the table.

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