Page 4 of Served

CHAPTER 2

FELIX

I roll my shoulders as I sit in the plastic chair, checking my phone for the tenth time in three minutes.

Nothing yet. Damn.

My knee bounces impatiently as I gaze around the room.

The Deepwood Mountain Community Center isn’t much to look at. Outside, it’s a single-story brick building with wide windows and faded blue awnings that have seen better days. Inside, the walls are covered with artwork done by local kids, community event flyers, and framed photos documenting the town’s history. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, bathing everything in a slightly too-bright glow that makes the worn carpet look even more tired and dated.

Still, there’s something undeniably charming and wholesome about the place, with its mismatched furniture and the smell of coffee that is permanently baked into the space. It really is the heart of this small town, where people gather to plan, celebrate, and support each other.

I couldn’t be happier to be here. Just five days in this hidden Montana gem, and I’m already thinking about ways I might be able to stick around beyond the Memorial Day event.

Mainly due to a certain food truck chef.

Another glance at my phone.

She said she’d text if she could make it, but still nothing.

I’ve been to Letty’s food truck every day this week, ordering whatever she recommends. I’ve memorized how she moves and sounds—the way her laughter on Thursday morning sounded like wind chimes when I made a stupid joke about jalapeño-induced tears, the precise way she moves her knife as she slices limes and onions. Every time she leans across the counter to hand me a plate, the generous view of her cleavage and her floral-cinnamon scent short-circuits my brain.

“Yo, Felix,” Troy chuckles, snapping a rubber band off a stack of flyers. “You gonna help set up, or just keep grinning at your phone like a teenager?”

“Sorry, man.” I pocket my phone as I stand, then grab a stack of folding chairs. “Just confirming someone’s attendance.”

Troy raises an eyebrow. “Someone? Or a certain owner of the Mariposa Taqueria?”

I sigh. “That obvious, huh.”

“Pfft, it’s a small town,” he shrugs, unfolding a table. “Zoe and I have bets on how long it’ll take you to ask Letty out. I said a week. Zoe gave you three days.”

Blood rushes to my face. “It’s not like that. I thought she could help out. The committee needs people, right?”

“Sure, buddy,” Troy snorts. “And I married Zoe because I needed someone to decorate my house for Christmas.”

I give him a playful shove. “I haven’t asked her out yet.”

“Yes! I’m still in with a chance!” He grins and walks off to fan the flyers on a table near the refreshments.

I set out the chairs, my prosthetic leg working smoothly. Most days I barely notice it. Except when climbing stairs…or running…or when beautiful women look at me with questions in their eyes.

Letty’s gaze had been different. She’d noticed my prosthesis, but there hadn’t been pity in her warm, brown eyes. Just…acknowledgement. Then she’d gone right back to business, treating me like any other customer.

My phone buzzes and I jump, then hastily fish it from my pocket.

On my way. Save me a seat?

My pulse kicks like a .50 cal jamming.

You best.

Shit. I gotta stop hitting send without proofing.

I mean, you bet.

Her reply comes right away.

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