Page 34 of Southern Storms

As she kept hollering, Mr. Personality turned and walked away from her, leaving the woman with her word vomit and bad pet owner skills.

The bell over the door dinged as he walked into the café. He took a seat at a corner booth, opened a menu, straightened his ballcap, and lowered his head, curving his massive shoulders forward as he studied the menu with too many options.

Why did he do that?

Why did he freaking have to save a pup from oncoming traffic?

Why did he have to make it so hard for me to dislike him?

Mr. Personality was built like a superhero. From his chiseled jawline to his biceps-on-biceps arms, that man probably could’ve stopped a highspeed train using his man-of-steel chest. It was a shame that when I crossed his path, his people skills didn’t match his apparent gym skills. Then again, that would’ve made him too good to be true.

“If you wanted a plate of salt with a steak and eggs on the side, you could’ve just asked,” a friendly voice offered, snapping my stare from Mr. Personality to the food I’d been mindlessly shaking salt onto for the past five minutes.

“Sorry,” I muttered, placing the saltshaker on the table and lowering myself back down in my seat. I glanced back out at the window to find the woman yelling at her dog for being disobedient.

I felt bad for the dog. The owner seemed like a truly disrespectful person.

“No need to be sorry. We all have our quirky habits,” the friendly voice promised.

My eyes moved to the guy speaking. He had thin rose-colored lips and green eyes hidden behind a pair of glasses. His eyes had this talent of being able to smile all on their own. His cheeks were covered in red freckles that matched his spiked orangish-red hair. I took in his name tag and grinned as I read it out loud. “Marty.” He looked exactly how I would’ve imagined a Marty to look. Kind of slim, but very tall. Kind of nerdy, but oddly handsome.

“That’s me,” he said, his lips turning up to match his smiling eyes. “Can I get you another steak and scrambled eggs?”

I hesitated, debating if I wanted to spend more money. Even though Yoana had been determined to shove money into my pockets, I declined. I still had enough in my savings from my books, but with the way I was writing—ornotwriting—I didn’t know when more money would come my way. Each nickel needed to matter.

Marty must have been a mind reader because he followed up his offer by saying it would be on the house.

“You wouldn’t get in trouble for that?” I asked, my stomach rumbling louder than I wanted it to. A level of embarrassment ran through me as I looked down at my salt-covered plate to avoid his concerned eyes.

“Ah, it’s no big deal. My dad owns the place.” He cleared his throat and leaned in to whisper, “I’ll score you some extra toast, too.” Marty lifted my plate off the table after picking it up and placing it back down a total of four times. I didn’t mention the odd behavior, but I did offer him a smile.

He looked about my age, maybe a year or so younger.

There was this odd struggle I saw happening in Marty’s eyes as he reached for the saltshaker once and placed it back on the table. He lifted it again, placed it down once more. This same action happened two more times, for a total of four. I arched an eyebrow to see his cheeks redden from some kind of shame.

“Sorry.” He laughed nervously. “Just a bad case of OCD.” He flinched at his words and my lips turned down. It was apparent that his obsessive-compulsive disorder was something he tried his best to hide but was unable to conceal.

That seemed to be the case with everyone, I supposed—having a secret you tried your best to hide.

I leaned in closer to him. “Don’t worry—we all have our quirky habits.” I winked his way and watched ease permeate his gaze.

“Is there a problem?” a stern voice asked.

I took my eyes away from Marty to look up at a grown man who was twice his size. Marty’s father, I assumed from the looks of things. His name tag told me his name was Gary.

Gary glared at his son and sighed, a look of disappointment in his tired eyes. “Are you freaking out the customers again?”

Before Marty could reply—or drop the shaky plate in his hand—I gripped his insecure hands and turned to Gary with a big smile. “I was just eyeing your red velvet cake in the display over there, and your son Marty here was telling me you have the best in town.”

Gary’s eyes softened. His lips turned up into a tiny grin as he crossed his arms and pushed out his chest. “That’s the truth. Best slice of cake you’ll find in Havenbarrow, and all of Kentucky, at that. I make everything from scratch. It’s the real deal. Ain’t nothing fake like that new chain restaurant across the street, taking all our customers. They use all frozen crap that messes with people’s insides. We pride ourselves on using real food. My cake is to die for.” It was amazing how manly Gary still appeared as he talked about a cake.

“Well, I’ll definitely have to come back one day and check it out.”

Gary brushed his palm across his brows. “You definitely do. Well, I better get back to the kitchen. Marty”—Gary’s annoyed look returned—“get to wiping down the other tables before the late-morning crowd comes through.”

Gary disappeared back into the busy kitchen, where pots and pans could be heard rattling. Marty thanked me for distracting his father for a moment then hurried off to place my new order.

While I waited, I pulled out a pen and a notebook from my purse and began adding to my list of things to do in Havenbarrow.

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