Page 2 of Sugar Coated Lies
I open the door. “Do you need help?”
The warm muggy air doesn’t keep me from shivering against the gust of wind that sweeps through the diner, nearly knocking me off my feet. Not that I’d complain if it did, I’d get to sit, even if only for a moment.
The man turns, his brown hair sopping wet and covering most of his face. “The fuckers left me,” he says in disbelief, as if he’s thinking out loud rather than talking to me.
“Sir?”
“Yes. I’m coming in,” he snaps.
I’ve half a mind to shut the door on him. Instead, I hold it open wide, rain hitting my arms, legs, and the thin material of my uniform. I shiver and resist the urge to bark, “Are you coming?”
He groans and finally traipses to the shelter of the diner, not bothering to thank me for holding the door open.
He raises his arms and shakes them out, pelting me with water. “I’m fucking soaked.”
“That happens when you stand in the rain.”
He straightens at once and gives me his profile, still covered by his long bangs. “Can I get a towel or something to dry myself off?”
Clearly, this guy is used to giving orders and getting what he wants. Definitely an out-of-towner.
I glance at the camera, certain Gary is watching me, and bite my tongue to keep from saying something that will get me fired. “Let me see what I can get you.”
I walk to the kitchen, careful not to slip because my sneakers are soaked and the soles of them are worn and lack traction.
“Take your time,” the guy throws out, mocking me.
I imagine giving him the finger and push through the kitchen door.
Annabeth stands in the back with her phone to her ear, arguing with—I assume—her husband, Chuck. He hates when she works late because he’s stuck with the kids and has a hard time getting them to bed.
“Hang on,” she says into the phone and looks at me. “Why are you wet?”
I shake my head and search for a clean towel or dish rag that doesn’t look yellow from age. “Last minute customer.” I lower my voice. “Some douche from out of town.”
She huffs and frowns at her phone. “Chuck’s going to flip.”
“Go home. I’ll handle it.”
“What about Gary?” For some reason, he always wants Annabeth to lock up when she’s working.
“I’ll handle him, too. Don’t worry.”
“You sure, hun?” The sound of screaming kids comes through her phone, followed by a bellowing voice.
I nod. “Yeah, don’t worry about it.”
“Thanks. I owe you.” If I claimed all the I-owe-yous she’s promised me, I wouldn’t have to work for two weeks.
By some miracle, I find a towel on the floor that had fallen off the shelf. It looks new. I suspect it’s because we couldn’t see it on the floor. I give it a few shakes, wipe myself off in a rush with one of the yellow-stained towels, and race back into the diner.
The man hasn’t moved, and a puddle has formed on the floor around his feet.
“It’s about time.” He snatches the towel from my hand and wipes his face and hair, then his hands, before peeling off his soaked blazer. His fitted t-shirt hugs a body that could rival any professional athlete. With the blazer off, he looks rugged and sexy rather than a preppy douche. If I saw him out, and he didn’t speak, I’d think he’s celebrity sexy. But then, I haven’t seen his face.
“Coffee?” I ask.
“Yes.”
