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T he next morning, I played the part of the dutiful wife, carefully wrapping Reggie's breakfast and stowing it in the fridge for him to grab when he finally dragged himself out of bed. I could already picture the scene: him stumbling out of the bedroom, bleary-eyed and reeking of last night's indulgence. But I refused to let that ruin my day.

I slipped into one of my latest fashion creations, a bold ensemble that made me feel like a million bucks. The wedges I wore gave me a confidence-boosting three-inch lift, and I swept my hair into a sleek, elegant bun, my features sharp and striking in the early light.

I tiptoed into Reggie’s lair—er, bedroom—to check if he was still snoozing the morning away. As expected, there he was, sprawled out across the bed, smelling of yesterday’s excess, still dressed in the same clothes he’d worn the night before. I cracked the window open, trying to air out the stench of alcohol that clung to the room. I scribbled a note with breakfast instructions, sneaking in a few subtle digs about his laziness before leaving it on his nightstand.

Reggie,

I left breakfast for you in the fridge. Just heat it up for 2 minutes in the microwave. Should be perfect.

P.S. Might want to consider changing your clothes today. Just saying.

With a quiet sigh, I steeled myself for the day ahead. The walk to work was short and simple, a blessing, especially since it saved me gas money and offered a rare moment of peace before the chaos began. And let’s face it: my car was a clunker, held together by duct tape and prayer.

The bell above the diner door jingled as I pushed it open, a cheery sound that cut through the morning quiet and jolted Sal out of his stupor. The warm, familiar scent of frying bacon and fresh coffee hit me immediately. Grease and comfort mixed in the air, like a thousand mornings spent in this place.

My boss and co-owner of the diner, thanks to Reggie’s “investment” (read: his way of keeping me in line), gave me a lazy, half-hearted grin. “Hey Brynie,” he drawled, rubbing his eyes. “You’re here bright and early. Can you finish setting up the dining area? I’m not exactly firing on all cylinders today.”

His face was a portrait of exhaustion: dark rings under his eyes, his usual swagger deflated. No surprise, really, he’d probably spent the night doing whatever reckless things he and Reggie got up to. I could only imagine the stories he could tell—if only he would. But Sal was a loyal friend, and he knew better than to spill Reggie’s secrets to me.

“Sal, how many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?” I snapped, irritation leaking through my words. “You know how much I hate that nickname.”

He raised his hands in mock surrender, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. His eyes flickered to the floor, avoiding mine as he muttered, “My apologies. Just slipped out. My mistake. ”

I arched an eyebrow, my skepticism hanging heavily in the space between us. Unlike with Reggie, I didn’t feel the need to censor myself around Sal. His smile, weak and disingenuous, was a pale imitation of Reggie’s. But it wasn’t just his lack of sincerity that grated on me; it was his appearance. Sal was a short, stout man with a belly that sagged over his waistband, always disheveled like he’d rolled out of bed just a few minutes ago.

“Uh-huh, sure it was,” I said, my voice laced with disbelief. “You’ve been making that ‘mistake’ an awful lot lately, haven’t you?” My eyes narrowed into slits, locking onto him with a sharp, disapproving glare.

He shrugged, his tone feigning nonchalance. “Come on, Bryn. I was just kidding around. Don’t take it so seriously.” His smug grin twisted into something more calculating, like he knew something I didn’t, like he was in on a joke that I was too slow to catch.

But I saw through it. I always did.

He wasn’t just messing around; he was playing a game. Beneath the surface of his so-called humor was something quieter, slipperier, an undercurrent of control. Like Reggie’s, but messier. A shadow of something darker lingered just out of reach.

Sal was a shady character, always toeing the edge of propriety, always scheming. I couldn’t shake the suspicion that he’d been dipping into my tips when I wasn’t looking, helping himself to my hard-earned money like it was nothing. That’s how he earned the nickname—at least in my head: Sleazy Sal. He was exactly as slimy as that name sounded, forever skirting the line of decency with a smile that clung to his mouth but left his eyes cold.

I ignored his response, his voice fading into the background as my attention remained fixed on the tables. My hands moved with a practiced precision, arranging them as though I were in my own private world. There was a mechanical quality to my actions, the steady rhythm of preparing the diner almost meditative. It wasn’t like we had a constant stream of customers anyway. Mediocre food and a remote location in rural Kentucky didn’t exactly scream “destination dining.”

Just as I tied the strings of my apron, the door jingled, signaling a new arrival. I straightened and made my way around the counter, offering a smile that I hoped concealed the remnants of a long morning.

But then I saw him.

He was…stunning. Towering at least 6'5, if not more, his height was so commanding it seemed to fill the room. His presence was impossible to ignore, like he’d walked in and claimed the space without even trying.

His face was an exquisite blend of rugged elegance: sharp angles, a strong jawline, and a faint stubble that only heightened his allure. It gave him that rebellious charm, the kind that made people look twice.

But it was his eyes, those piercing, ocean-blue eyes, that drew me in. They held mystery, as if something buried lay just beneath the surface, always out of reach. The kind of gaze that begged to be understood, a challenge wrapped in beauty.

His dark curls, slicked back with an ease that felt deliberate, framed his chiseled features like marble brought to life—too striking, too perfect to belong in this world.

For a moment, I forgot to breathe, caught in the pull of him.

Every detail about him screamed high-end luxury, from the sharp cut of his suit to the glint of his expensive watch catching the light. It was obvious he wasn’t from around here. He looked like he belonged in a downtown boardroom, not at a roadside diner where the only extravagance was the rich, comforting aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

I forced a calm smile, despite the butterflies in my stomach fluttering like an anxious swarm. Each step toward him was an effort to steady my nerves, a silent reminder that I was here to do my job, nothing more.

Get a grip. You’re not here to get swept away. This is just a job. Keep it together.

“Hi there! Feel free to take a seat at any table,” I said, gesturing toward the empty chairs, doing my best to appear inviting. The tension curling in my stomach slipped into my voice as I added, “I’ll be right with you.”

Then he turned to face me. His gaze locked onto mine—unblinking—and for a moment, the words froze in my mouth. He didn’t move. His stare pinned me in place like he’d seen a ghost. The world around us seemed to pause, time itself slowing.

A flicker crossed his face. Was it recognition? Awareness? My spine stiffened, a chill crawling down my back as if the air had shifted. The atmosphere felt charged, an unspoken energy pulsing between us. It wasn’t just a look. It felt like he was peeling back layers of me I didn’t even know were there.

I squirmed slightly, tugging at the hem of my dress. Doubt crept in. Was I out of place? My dress, once cute and put-together, now felt too short. Standing before him, with his flawless appearance and worldliness, I felt small, like a child playing dress-up.

As the shock faded from his face, he regained his composure effortlessly, his voice smooth, like velvet gliding over my senses. It was deeper than I expected, a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the air.

“I’m not here to eat,” he said, his voice steady but clipped. “I’m trying to find the Sentinel Building. Can you give me directions?”

His eyes darted to his watch, a brief flash of desperation crossing his features, making him seem momentarily vulnerable. Human, in a way. “I’m running behind. There’s a meeting I can’t afford to be late for.”

For a second, I saw him as a man completely out of his element, like a seasoned traveler suddenly disoriented in a world that didn’t quite make sense. He looked like he’d wandered into a low-budget film, where the ordinary rules of time and space no longer applied.

I shook off the surreal feeling and focused, offering him a look I hoped would be both reassuring and confident. “You’re so close! It’s just two streets up from here, on Galbraith.” I pointed, trying to guide him back to solid ground. “Can’t miss it.”

A dazzling smile spread across his face, the kind that could have belonged to someone on a magazine cover. His teeth were perfectly straight and impossibly white, polished to perfection. For a single breath, the world seemed to tilt on its axis. The lights around us dimmed, and I swore I could almost hear a cinematic score swelling, as if the universe itself were highlighting this moment.

Okay, maybe I’m being a little dramatic.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice light with gratitude, as though I had just done him a favor far beyond mere directions. “I owe you one.”

I couldn’t help the flutter that bloomed in my chest, his smile warming me in a way that caught me off guard. I twisted a strand of hair around my finger, my nerves creeping in.

“No problem,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “I hope you make it in time.”

“Now that I’m back on track, I’ll be good. Thanks again. I really appreciate it. See you around. ”

With a casual wink and a crinkling of his eyes, he turned and walked out of the diner, the soft jingle marking his departure. I stood frozen for a moment, still feeling the ripple of his presence, like a gust of wind that had just swept through and left me reeling. The door swung shut behind him, and I wondered briefly if I’d dreamed the whole thing. Had it been real? Or had he just been some figment of my imagination?

Sal emerged from the kitchen, a towel slung over his shoulder, scanning the empty diner with a confused expression. “Didn’t I just hear a customer come in, or am I hallucinating?” His voice carried real bewilderment, unable to make sense of the silence that usually buzzed with breakfast orders.

A part of me wanted to mess with him, to jab back at the whole ‘Brynie’ debacle, but my mood was flat, the encounter with the stranger having left me off-kilter. I decided to keep it easygoing instead, strolling over to him with a relaxed air and letting the intensity of the moment fade.

“Just some guy looking for directions,” I replied, keeping my voice breezy.

Sal’s gaze locked on me, unblinking, his expression one of barely concealed disbelief. “Well, buckle up, because today’s half-priced pancake special is going to be a doozy,” he warned, his tone thick with resignation, already preparing for the worst .

I rolled my eyes, unable to stop the reflexive motion, but deep down—I knew he was right. The diner was rarely busy, but when it was, it became a whirlwind of orders, dirty dishes, and an unrelenting rush of customers. The thought of enduring another chaotic shift under the buzzing fluorescent lights made the weight of my day feel even heavier. But I didn’t have much choice. Did I?

I never really had one.

After a long shift, I headed home, but my feet had other ideas, taking me straight to Charla Mae’s boutique. I stopped in front of the window, completely caught up in the beautiful gowns on display. My mind wandered back to the mysterious stranger who’d come into the diner earlier. What kind of woman would catch his eye? Maybe someone who wore these dresses with the kind of confidence I could only dream of.

I imagined him walking out, likely thinking little of me, just another small-town girl in a worn-out apron and a homemade dress trying too hard to be stylish. Did he find me laughable, an amateur attempt at glamor that wasn’t fooling anyone? He’d probably fled as soon as his meeting ended, eager to leave our town in the rearview mirror. Honestly, I envied him. I wished I had the courage to pack up and leave, too .

I lingered too long, lost in my thoughts, caught in the web of my own imagination. Finally, I forced myself to turn away, tearing my eyes from the gowns that seemed to whisper secrets in the wind. With a sigh, I made my way home, the memory of his piercing stare still lingering, like an echo in the darkness.

When I reached the farmhouse, a familiar unease settled over me like a suffocating fog. It had always felt wrong, this house. It was Reggie’s family home, but it felt more like a prison than a place to call my own. The air smelled of decay, stale and musty, and there was always a kind of uneasy energy about it, as if the house itself were holding its breath.

The walls groaned and buckled, the paint peeling in strips, and the once-beautiful wooden beams sagged, threatening to collapse at any moment. The flickering shadows in the corners seemed to stretch and writhe, turning the decaying walls into something sinister. But I pushed the feeling aside, focusing on the mundane task at hand: dinner.

I shuffled into the kitchen, the worn linoleum creaking beneath my feet. The room, a maze of old appliances and dusty cabinets, had become familiar over time. As I cooked, the savory aroma of sizzling vegetables and meat filled the air, pushing back the stale scent of neglect.

Reggie was already on the couch, lazily flipping through channels, his posture sprawled, feet resting carelessly on the ottoman. He seemed to sink into the cushions, like he was trying to disappear into the TV. The dim, changing light from the screen danced in his vacant eyes, and the air between us was thick with an invisible tension, one that never fully dissipated, no matter how hard I tried to ignore it.

“Brynie, finally! I’m starving!” he called out, his voice carrying a note of playful annoyance. “What took you so long? I was starting to think I’d have to heat something from the fridge myself.” His words felt more like an order than a greeting.

His eyes never left the screen, but I could feel them on me, a pressure that settled on my shoulders like a physical touch. The way he lounged there, comfortable and oblivious, made something inside me twist with disgust.

“I lost track of time at the diner, stayed later than I meant to,” I said, trying for a tone that sounded casual. I wouldn’t dare admit I’d spent those extra minutes lingering by the boutique, fantasizing about dresses I could never afford. Reggie would’ve had a field day with that, dismissing me as pathetic, just like he always did.

He sat up straighter, his brow lifting in skepticism, his eyes flashing with a faint, contemptuous gleam. “Is that so? Sal’s working you ragged, huh?” He fixed me with a cold, calculating stare, trying to catch me in a lie. “Poor thing.” He pretended to have sympathy, but his voice betrayed none—only mockery .

“You know Sal,” I replied with a half-smile, my lips curving into something brittle. I knew exactly how to provoke him, and just as well how to avoid his wrath. It was a delicate balance, one I’d perfected over the years, though it drained me like an exhausting, never-ending dance.

Reggie’s gaze lingered on me a moment longer before, with a dismissive wave, he sank back into the couch. He grabbed the remote again and resumed aimlessly flipping through the channels, as if nothing I felt could touch his world.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it. I’ll handle things.”

His voice was smooth, almost serpentine, with a chilling edge that slithered under my skin. I knew he wasn’t really concerned; his kindness was just an act. Reggie didn’t care about anyone, least of all me. His world revolved around one person: Reggie. Yet, despite everything, a small, treacherous part of me wondered if, deep down, there was even the faintest trace of compassion for me.

As I moved through the kitchen, the scent of roasting meat and fragrant spices enveloped me, grounding me in the warmth of the familiar. The cozy, comforting aroma of dinner filled the space, offering a stark contrast to the coldness of my thoughts.

When the chicken was finally ready, I plated it and brought it to Reggie, who was waiting with exaggerated anticipation. He leaned forward, his posture rigid, fighting to contain a childlike excitement. He inhaled deeply, his gaze locking onto me with unnerving intensity, his lips barely parting as he savored the scent.

“Mmm, that smells incredible, Brynie girl,” he said, his voice heavy with expectation. “Here’s hoping the chicken isn’t overcooked for once.”

I shot him a glare and headed for the fridge. “Let me grab you another beer. Who knows, maybe after a few more, your taste buds will be numb.”

He let out a low, humorless chuckle that made the walls—and my nerves—rattle, causing me to flinch. “Might take more than that,” he said, showing no effort to spare my dignity. “Better grab a six-pack, just to play it safe.”

At least then you’d pass out, and I wouldn’t have to deal with you, I thought, though I wisely kept it to myself.

After dinner, Reggie disappeared into his lair without so much as a thank you, leaving me to tackle the mountain of dishes. I scrubbed and rinsed, feeling like an underappreciated servant in my own home.

Finally, retreating to my bedroom, exhaustion settled in. I grabbed my book, its pages a welcome escape, the words slowly unraveling the knots in my mind and soothing my tired body.

As I sank deeper into the story, time slipped away unnoticed. Reality and fiction blurred. The stranger from the diner, with his piercing eyes and sharp jawline, slowly morphed into the dashing hero of my novel. My imagination, ever the accomplice, wove him seamlessly into the narrative, his presence lingering in the corners of my mind like a restless spirit.

The room darkened around me as the hours bled into one another. The soft rustle of pages was the only sound, carrying whispers of secrets that only the night could hold.

Suddenly, I snapped out of my reverie, my heart pounding with a mix of embarrassment and alarm. What the hell was I doing? I’d met this guy for all of a minute, yet here I was, making him the star of my romance novel like some kind of obsessed fanfiction writer. The absurdity of it made me feel like a complete creep.

A hot flush spread across my face as I slammed the book shut, shoving it under the mattress to hide the evidence of my ridiculous daydreaming. I flicked off the lamp, closed my eyes, and let sleep pull me under, hoping tomorrow would bring a clearer mind and a much-needed dose of reality.