Page 196 of The Tempted

Chapter Two

I heard the engine even before I could turn around and peer out the window, I knew he was there. I watched him as he threw his leg over his bike. He parked right in front of Dee’s Diner; just as he did every night I worked the graveyard shift, which was five nights a week. I didn’t mind the hours, favored them even, the less people coming in and out of this place, the fewer who saw me. But him? He came in every night I worked and he saw me. It was unnerving the way he looked at me, those eyes of his seeing right through my armor, down to the scars that marked my soul.

The bell chimed above the door as his boots scraped across the laminate flooring. I poured him a cup of coffee. He took it black with two sugars. I didn’t lift my eyes, or acknowledge his presence but I knew he parked his ass in his usual seat at the counter.

Five weeks.

Five nights a week.

He came into Dee’s.

Each night I poured him a cup of coffee and slid a menu across the counter.

Each night he pushed the menu back.

I reached behind me and pulled out my pad and pencil. As I kept my eyes focused on the blank ticket I spoke the same words I recited to everyone that came into the diner.

“What can I get you?”

“I’m good for now,” he said. I felt his eyes travel over me, pleading with me to lift my head and look at him.

It wasn’t that I had anything against him. I treated all my customers the same. I took their orders and served their food but I didn’t give them anything more. Dee asked me a time or two why I wasn’t more personal with the customers, told me I’d make better tips if I treated them to a smile here and there. I didn’t want to disappoint Dee, nor did I want to lose my job but I wasn’t so sure I knew how to smile anymore.

“Pie,” he said, jolting me from my thoughts. He never ordered anything other than a cup of coffee. It was a shock, an ad lib in a well-rehearsed script and it caused me to lift my head and stare into his eyes.

They were dark brown, almost black, not a spectacular color, not even something that deserved a second glance. Yet, I gasped when I looked into his black irises. Dark eyes that hinted at a dark soul. There was hurt behind those eyes. There was pain.

I wondered if it was his own pain or if it was just mine reflected back at me.

“Cherry,” he added.

I swallowed, tore my eyes from his and tried to focus.

Pie.

It was an uncontrollable force that brought my eyes back to his. His lips twitched slightly as he cocked his head to the side and raised an eyebrow. God, there was something about this man. He was familiar yet he was foreign. I took a minute to take in his features. He had a strong jaw lined with the slightest hint of black and silver scruff. His lips weren’t thin but not quite full, just right and perfectly in tune with the rest of him. His nose was somewhat crooked—probably broke it once or twice and never had it set properly. There were lines at the corners of his eyes and something told me they weren’t from laughter. His dark hair, almost as black as his eyes, had some traces of gray scattered through it. He didn’t appear old, but rather a man who had lived and lived hard.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered and shook my head when I realized I had been staring at him for quite some time. I went from barely glancing at him to ogling him.

“What’re you sorry for, sweetheart?” his voice sounded hoarse.

“Pie,” I paused, glancing over my shoulder at the desserts that lined the shelf. “We don’t have cherry pie,” I turned and dropped my gaze back to my pad.

“Then I’ll take whatever you have to give,” he said, in a tone I couldn’t describe but one that had me lifting my head again.

“The blueberry is fresh,” I mumbled.

“I’ll take it,” he responded instantly.

I nodded and turned around to grab the man a slice of pie. I placed the plate in front of him and reached over to the seat beside him and took the silverware off the placemat. I handed him the fork and his fingers brushed mine as he took it. My body stirred and vibrated at the slight touch and I snatched my hand back.

“Enjoy,” I mumbled, grabbing the rag from beneath the counter to wipe the surface clean to busy myself.

“Name’s Jack,” he offered, breaking off a corner of his pie and stabbing it with his fork.

I didn’t ask his name, and I wasn’t willing to share mine with him.

“Reina,” I responded, defying myself.

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