Page 19 of Once Upon A Small Town Secret
“I’m not your personal bakery,” Paige says, flipping her menu closed. “And I haven’t even opened yet, so stop promising people cinnamon rolls.”
The conversation drifts as I jot down their coffee orders and circle back with Lilly to make sure the kitchen’s warming up. When I return, they’ve moved on to debating omelets versus pancakes like it’s a life-or-death decision.
Jason is swearing the omelet is the king of breakfast because “it’s like six meals in one,” Paige insisting pancakes are the only correct choice, Don making a case for French toast like it’s a political debate, and Gwen rolling her eyes at all of them while taking no sides.
Something about the light and easy way they’re doing it—the light jabs, the overlapping voices, the mock outrage—makes me pause.
It’s so casual, so safe. The kind of argument that’s not really an argument. Just a friendly debate with fake heat between people who love each other. The kind of argument where everyone knows they’ll still be smiling afterward.
I never had that. Not once.
All my arguments growing up had been real. Every raised voice with my dad had ended with slammed doors, grounded weekends, and cold silences. And before my mom left, the walls in our house had been too thin to block out the fights—shouted words that cut, the crash of plates against walls, the sound of wails and slamming doors.
I shake it off and step closer to the table, forcing a smile onto my face before anyone notices. “Alright,” I say, tapping my notepad. “Who’s winning this ridiculous debate so I can actually take your order?”
“Oh no, you’re not getting away that easily,” Gwen says. “It’s been too long since we’ve had a proper catch-up. When you put our order in, you put yours in as well.”
I shake my head, already taking a step back toward the bar. “I can’t. I’ve got to help Lilly get the kitchen going and start setting up for lunch.”
Gwen gives me that steely look that I’ve seen her use on Jason more times than I can count. “Benjamin Hoffman, there is not a soul in here but us, and lunch is hours off. You’re sitting with us.”
I glance toward Lilly through the kitchen pass. She’s already cracking eggs, humming to herself, not looking remotely overwhelmed. My excuse crumbles faster than I’d like. “Really, it’s fine. I’ll just grab a coffee and—”
“Nope.” Gwen shakes her head, her smile never slipping. “A real breakfast. No excuses.”
Jason grins like he’s watching the best kind of train wreck. “Yeah, Benny. Sit down. Eat some damn food for once.”
I blow out a slow breath, knowing I’ve lost this round. “Fine,” I say, scribbling my own order at the bottom of the page. “Chef’s choice for me, a side of bacon. Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” Gwen says, leaning back in the booth with the satisfaction of a woman who always gets her way.
“Alright, what’s it gonna be for the rest of you?”
They rattle off their orders—Jason wants the breakfast burger, Don goes for a western omelet, Gwen asks for French toast with a side of bacon, and Paige chooses blueberry pancakes. I scribble it all down, trying to ignore the way her shirt gapes and gives me a clear view down the front of it while standing over her.
I take the tickets to the kitchen, hand them off to Lilly, and when I come back, everyone has shifted slightly to make room for me—right next to Paige.
I glance at Paige, but she’s looking pointedly down, stirring her coffee cup.
I slide in beside her. The booth feels smaller instantly, the press of her hip against mine warm and very, very distracting.
Chapter Nine
Paige
Ben slides in beside me, the vinyl seat giving a little squeak under his weight. The space between us disappears in an instant, his hip warm against mine, and suddenly the oversized U-shaped booth feels like a shoebox.
I stir my coffee with more focus than it needs, watching the swirl of cream dissolve instead of looking at him. It’s ridiculous—he’s Jason’s best friend, I’ve known him for years, and yet my pulse is behaving like I’ve just been caught doing something scandalous.
Jason is still talking, cracking some joke about the “superior architecture of an omelet”—though he didn’t even order one—and Mom is laughing, but all I can think about is how close Ben’sarm is to brushing mine. His shoulder’s broad enough that I can feel the heat radiating from it, even though he’s angled slightly toward the table.
I risk a glance. He’s concentrating very hard on the piece of toast in his hand, chewing slowly. His jaw clenches with each bite, and I can’t help the surge of lust in my belly.
What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I acting like this?
So, he’s attractive. It’s not like I’ve never met an attractive man before.
The smell of sizzling bacon and warm pancakes drifts over from the kitchen, and I’m grateful for the distraction. Lilly appears a moment later with two plates balanced on one arm and another in her free hand, moving with practiced ease.
