Page 6 of Bennett

This time was no different. Everyone greeted her with a smile and talked to her as if they were genuinely interested in what she had to say. It was refreshing.

Now it was four days after her aunt’s surgery, and Laurel had already adopted an efficient routine at the diner. Her toughest obstacle was keeping Aunt Annie from doing too much. Apparently, greeting people and taking care of the register weren’t enough.

Today, she had to concede and let the stubborn spitfire refill coffees with her good hand while chatting with her regulars at the counter. Like now, she was smiling at Duke, a local realtor, and laughing at something the ice cream shop owner, Arthur, had said.

Hopefully, that would appease her aunt until the follow-up visit with the doctor next Wednesday.

It was going to be a long six days.

Pushing that thought aside, Laurel weaved through the diner, expertly dodging a wayward elbow and a kid swinging his legs under a table as she made her way toward the sheriff and his ex-military buddies. She’d waited on most of them before. They were loud, sure, but they were also the kind of customers who made the morning shift entertaining. And considering they tipped well, she wasn’t about to complain.

As she approached the table, the sheriff’s order in hand, she happily readied herself for the usual chaos that came with serving his friends.

“Here you are, Sheriff Bryson,” she said, setting his order in front of him.

“Thanks, Laurel,” he replied before digging in with all the gusto of a man about to be called away, which, unfortunately had happened many times.

She turned her attention to the group and smiled. “Well, well, look who finally rolled in. Harland’s finest security team, in all your breakfast-eating glory.”

Cooper, one of the mischievous ones, grinned up at her. “And here we thought you’d be happy to see us.”

“I am,” she said smoothly, retrieving a pad and pencil from her apron. “The tips are usually decent, and you guys don’t make weird special requests like that one guy who asked for his eggs boiled exactly six and a half minutes.”

The cook was still complaining about it, and that was two days ago.

“Reason number one thousand why I hate civilians,” Matthew muttered.

Laurel smirked then shifted her gaze to the one unfamiliar face at the table. Broody. Strong. Quiet.

Too ridiculously good-looking.

Before she could ask, Mac gestured toward him. “Laurel Sinclair, meet Bennett Vaughn. He’s new at ESI.”

New guy’s eyes met hers—steady, unreadable, yet vaguely amused. They were also brown, but where hers were a light shade, his were dark, like rich chocolate.

Her favorite food group.

“Bennett Vaughn, huh?” She lifted her chin. “Two surnames. That’s different. Suits you, kind of like a mysterious action hero.”

Stupid mouth. It was going to get her in trouble one of these days.

“I’m no hero,” he replied, his voice low and even. And sexy.

Her heart skipped a beat.

Nope.

She ignored it.

Tilting her head, she pretended to size him up. “Doubt that. Not with the company you keep.”

His brow lifted slightly, but he didn’t ask what she meant. Instead, he handed over his menu. “Coffee, black. Pancakes. Bacon.”

She snorted. “Wow. Look at you, living life on the edge.”

He didn’t react, but she swore she caught the corner of his mouth twitching.

An unexpected thrill shot through her, so she squashed it down like a proverbial scampering spider.