Page 3

three

I dragged myself into the diner, still half-asleep after last night’s marathon reading session. My legs felt like lead, my brain even worse. But then I caught my reflection in the window and paused. The fatigue didn’t vanish entirely, but something shifted.

The dress I’d reworked was a game-changer. Wearing something I’d made, and made well, sparked a quiet kind of pride. For the first time in a while, I didn’t just look put together. I felt it.

Just then, Sal’s unsavory face poked out from the half-open kitchen door. “Bryn, kitchen’s behind. We need you—now.”

I let out a heavy sigh, frustration flaring up inside me. “Yeah, okay. I’ll be right there.” Guess I’ll just do it all , I thought bitterly. Sal’s too cheap to hire anyone else. He knows no one would put up with his crap for the scraps he pays me.

I spent the next few minutes helping him catch up, wiping down counters, restocking condiments, and making sure the coffee pots were ready for the rush, before finally making my way back into the dining area.

As I stepped through the swinging door, I spotted him—the stranger from yesterday, seated in the corner like he’d been coming here for years. His tailored suit clashed with the diner’s rustic charm, too polished, too precise, like he didn’t quite belong. And yet, somehow, right at home. I hadn’t expected to see him again, but there he was.

I walked over, heart fluttering, my smile too tight to feel natural. Still, I handed him the menu with what I hoped passed for poise. “Hello, sir,” I said, maybe a little too fast. “How are you today? Joining us for breakfast, I assume?”

His eyes sparked as he took the menu, his fingers brushing mine, just enough to make my breath catch .

“I’m doing good, thanks,” he said, a faint smile playing at the edge of his mouth. “Had some time this morning. Thought I’d treat myself.”

He ran a hand through his dark, curly hair. It was neatly swept back, but a few rebellious strands had escaped, slipping into his face like they refused to follow orders. Despite the brief tension in his shoulders, he kept his posture relaxed.

“I apologize for yesterday’s…” He paused, his smile flickering as he searched for the right word. “Abrupt departure. Wouldn’t want to leave a poor impression.”

He radiated confidence, charm carefully measured, every word designed to put me at ease. I tucked a loose curl behind my ear, hoping the familiar motion would settle the nerves fluttering in my chest.

“No need to apologize,” I said, trying to sound breezy. “I didn’t take offense.” I gave a quick wave of my hand, even though I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about him.

His eyes lit with relief as he placed a hand over his heart and let out a playful sigh. “Thank goodness that’s settled.” His gaze dipped to my name tag, then rose again. “So, Bryn, what’s the local favorite? What do you recommend?”

I hesitated, taken aback. Our kitchen wasn’t exactly known for its culinary brilliance. Might as well be blunt. No point getting his hopes up.

“To be honest, most of the food’s pretty awful. But the pancakes? They’re infamous.” I shot a quick glance at Sleazy Sal, hovering by the counter like part of the décor. “Officially, they’re scrumptious, but between you and me…” I scrunched my nose. “They’re…not.”

He chuckled, low and warm, the sound rippling over my skin. His gaze lingered a moment as he handed back the menu, nodding once.

“Alright, you’ve convinced me. I’ll have the scrumptious pancakes and a cup of coffee, please.”

I took the menu with what I hoped looked like casual ease, though a smile tugged at my mouth before I could stop it.

“Okay, one order of pancakes,” I said, shaking my head with a soft breath. “Blueberry or chocolate-chip?”

He tilted his head, considering for a moment, then gave me a slow, teasing smile. “Surprise me.”

I had a feeling it would be a surprise, all right. A surprise if Larry, our one and only cook, even remembered to flip them. He was probably more focused on his next smoke break than anything involving an actual stove. I turned to place the order, already bracing myself for whatever disaster would slide off that griddle and onto a plate.

I didn’t make it far. Just as I reached the swinging doors, Sal materialized in front of me, blocking the way like some kind of greasy troll. His glare zeroed in on the stranger, suspicion flaring in his eyes.

He folded his arms, planting his feet wide, like he thought sheer size might intimidate someone. “Who’s the new guy?” he asked, his voice low and edged with warning.

My gaze followed his, drawn to the mysterious man like a moth to a flame. I had to tear my eyes away, forcing my attention back.

“No idea,” I said with a shrug, feigning indifference. But despite my attempt to act nonchalant, my fascination got the better of me, and I found myself sneaking another glance.

Sal’s voice tightened with resentment, his jaw clenching as he spoke. “He’s not exactly the type that fits in around here.” His gaze sharpened, and for a split second, something like envy flickered in his eyes. “He’s got a weird vibe.”

I studied him, thrown by his intensity. What was he even getting at? I fidgeted with my notepad, creasing the corners. “I don’t know…he just looks…put together.”

Sal’s eyes snapped back to me, narrowing like a predator honing in on its prey. “What’s that supposed to mean? You saying I’m not put-together?” He jabbed a thumb against his chest. “You saying he’s better than me?”

Annoyance flared in my chest. He was twisting everything—like always—and yes, I absolutely thought the stranger was better than him. But I wasn’t about to say that out loud.

I just blinked, let my irritation flash across my face, then rolled my eyes and stepped around him. Without another word, I slipped into the kitchen to drop off the pancake order and grab a fresh carafe of coffee.

When I returned to the stranger’s table, I filled his mug and set the rest of the brew beside it. He added a packet of sugar, then examined his spoon, turning it over like it held some hidden flaw. His movements were precise, almost obsessive. He pulled out a handkerchief and began wiping the spoon’s head with a tenderness that struck me as…strange. His brow creased. He wiped it again.

A clean freak. No surprise there.

“So, Bryn,” he said finally, glancing up. “What’s the best way to kill time around here? I’m a New York native, but I’ll be calling this place home for a few months. Business stuff.”

A city boy from New York, huh? What kind of business stuff could he possibly have in a small town like ours?

I took a moment, trying to find the least depressing way to put it. He couldn’t seriously think this town offered more than backroads and bad decisions.

“Depends on what you’re into. If you like hiking and hunting, you’ll be in heaven. But if you’re looking for a more…” I trailed off, weighing the words, “vibrant nightlife, you’re out of luck. We’ve got a few bars in town, but I’m certain they’re a far cry from what you’re used to in the city.”

A faint, almost imperceptible smile played on his lips. His voice, smooth and effortless, had a magnetic pull. “ I’ve always been more of a nature lover,” he said, stirring his coffee with a calm, unhurried motion. “The whole party scene? Never really been my thing.”

I shot him a skeptical look, my mind spinning with questions I didn’t quite have the guts to ask. In what world did he not belong in the party scene? He looked like he’d stepped off a red carpet, not wandered into a sleepy mountain town.

I reeled it in. “Well, in that case, you’ve come to the right place. Our hiking trails are top-notch.” My eyes followed the cup in his hand as he brought it to his lips, an ordinary motion, but somehow it caught me. Held me, even.

I cleared my throat. “If you’re into coffee, you should check out Deano’s. It’s a great family-run spot just down the street. I’m a regular there. Daily, pretty much.”

He set the mug down slowly, his focus never leaving mine. The warmth from it seemed to radiate across the table, anchoring me in place. “Deano’s, huh? I’ll definitely check it out.”

Then his gaze dropped to my outfit. His lips parted like he was about to say something, then hesitated.

“I hope I’m not being too forward,” he said with a slight nod. “But I’ve got to say…your dress is incredible. The design, the colors...it’s really something special.”

I glanced down, smoothing my hands over the fabric as warmth crept into my cheeks .

“My dress? Oh…thanks,” I said, my voice catching just a little. “I actually made it. Well, more like gave it a makeover.”

I wasn’t sure how to read his tone—sarcastic or sincere? Coming from a New Yorker, I half-expected him to find my handiwork quaint, maybe even laughable next to the fashion he was used to. But there was something genuine in his expression, and it threw me.

He blinked, like he hadn’t expected that.

“Wait…you made that? That’s insane.” There was a hint of awe in his voice. “You ever think about designing full-time?”

I forced a smile, but it faded almost instantly. “Unfortunately, there’s not much demand for custom dresses around here. And the people who can afford them usually stick with the big-name designers.”

I had considered it before, but our small town wasn’t exactly a fashion hotspot. Pursuing it full-time felt like a colossal risk, especially since it would mean leaving the diner behind. And Reggie wouldn’t take that well. He’d always dismissed my work, called my creations subpar, a waste of time. And honestly, it wasn’t like I had any real savings to fall back on.

His gaze softened, something shifting in his voice. Curiosity, maybe, or quiet encouragement. “That’s too bad. Maybe someday…”

I nodded at the hope in his words, even though I knew how unlikely it really was .

“Yeah…maybe.”

Then a thought popped into my head, and I couldn’t stop myself.

“But hey, if you ever need a one-of-a-kind dress, I’m your girl.” I lifted my hands, palms up, sketching the scene in the air. “Just picture it. You walk into a meeting, ten minutes late, and everyone’s too busy picking their jaws up off the floor to notice. You toss out a ‘Sorry I’m late,’ with a wink and a hair flip, of course.”

A broad smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he leaned in, propping his chin on his hand.

“Oh, really? Do you make dresses in my size?” he asked, one brow quirked in teasing challenge.

I couldn’t help but be tickled by the thought of him in a dress— especially one of mine. I even found myself wondering what color he’d pick. Probably blue. It’d bring out his eyes.

“I can’t say I have much experience designing for giants,” I said, “but I’m sure I could whip something up that’d have you turning heads wherever you go.”

I gave him a quick once-over, then added, “It’ll cost you more, though. You know…extra fabric.”

He threw his head back, laughter spilling out, warm and easy. “That’s fair,” he said, adjusting his tie. “And totally worth it. I’d pay big bucks just to see that.”

“Oh, trust me…” I held his gaze, letting my smile take its ti me. “So would I.”

The moment lingered, an undeniable spark between us, before I turned and pushed through the swinging kitchen doors. The sizzle of the griddle and the familiar scent of overcooked batter hit me as I stepped inside.

A few minutes later, I returned with a steaming plate of pancakes—sadly overdone, the blueberries now soggy. I set the dish in front of him and met his gaze with a cringe, half apology, half warning, then braced myself for his inevitable reaction.

But instead of scowling, he actually looked pleased. “Blueberry, excellent choice,” he said, his eyes sparkling as he reached for the syrup bottle.

A wave of calm settled over me, the pressure in my chest deflating like a balloon.

“I hope they’re not too terrible,” I said, offering a small, sheepish shrug. I tried to keep my tone light, though a hint of uncertainty slipped through.

He took his first bite, and his eyes lit up with genuine appreciation. With a quick thumbs-up, his approval was clear. No words needed.

Relief washed over me, warm, unexpected, and a far cry from what I would’ve felt if Reggie had been the one sitting across from me, picking apart the food and somehow making it my fault.

But this guy? He was different.

I moved on to a few other tables, the clink of glasses and hum of conversation creating a cozy rhythm in the diner .

Pausing at the front counter to catch my breath, I felt Sal’s gaze fixed on me, steady and unblinking, like he expected me to read his mind.

“Yeah?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

His frustration was obvious, his voice edged with annoyance. “So…what’s the deal with him? Why’s he still here?” He jerked his chin toward the man leisurely enjoying his pancakes. “You’d think he’d have better things to do than hang around our diner all morning.”

I circled around him, letting out a quiet sigh as I sank into the corner chair. My shoulders slumped, and I casually picked up my crossword puzzle, tapping the pencil against the paper before pretending to focus on the grid. “Guess he’s sticking around for breakfast.”

Silence settled between us, thick with his disapproval. I looked up, met his stare, and tilted my chin in defiance. Then I turned back to the puzzle, the cryptic clues suddenly more appealing than anything Sal had to say.

“Apparently, he’s here on a business trip from New York,” I said, keeping my tone flat. “He’ll be around for a few months.” I waved a hand, brushing it off. “Oh, and get this, he called my dress ‘incredible.’”

A proud smile tugged at my lips as I ran my fingers over the silk, admiring the intricate stitching and craftsmanship.

He turned to the register, counting the bills with excruciating slowness, as though savoring the touch of each dollar. “Come on, he doesn’t care about the dress…just what’s under it.” A smug smirk played on his mouth.

I spun around, stunned. “I highly doubt that.”

Even as the words left my lips, uncertainty crept in. Could it be that he truly meant the compliment? Or did he see me as little more than an object to admire, a fleeting distraction? Men of his…status probably saw women that way. The thought lingered, unwanted, but I quickly pushed it aside.

He froze, his hands pausing mid-motion as he turned fully toward me. His eyes slid over me, lingering on every curve with a sharp, sarcastic gleam. “Yeah, you’re probably right,” he muttered, his voice thick with disdain. With a brief nod, he returned to his task, his focus back on the money.

Was he serious? I wasn’t a supermodel, sure, but Sal wasn’t exactly a catch. His love life was as dry as the Sahara, and I’d bet my last dollar he wasn’t getting any action unless he paid for it. The thought was almost laughable.

As I headed back to the man’s table, I caught him glancing at his watch. The glint of gold drew my eye. Was that a Rolex? I’d only ever seen them in pictures, but this one looked real. It wasn’t just a timepiece: it was a statement—wealth, status, power.

“I apologize. I didn’t realize the time,” he said, tone rushed. “I really need to get going.” He pulled out his wallet, slid free a sleek black American Express card, and handed it over with a flick of his wrist.

I nodded with a smile. “No problem at all. Just give me a sec to print your receipt.”

As I took the card, my gaze dropped to the name embossed at the bottom: Ezekiel Rykoff. Elegant script, dignified, like it belonged on a plaque or the spine of a leather-bound book.

The register beeped. I tore the receipts and returned to his table. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your day,” I said, polite but measured.

“Likewise, Bryn.” His crooked smile returned, along with a wink. His voice was warm, his gaze lingering a second too long.

He signed with a quick flourish, then pushed back his chair. As he walked away, I couldn’t help noticing the bold red soles of his shoes.

As soon as he disappeared from view, I bent to collect his plate. A sliver of green paper peeked from beneath the syrup holder. I retrieved the bills. My jaw dropped. Two hundred dollars? He’d left me a $200 tip?! I pocketed the cash, grinning to myself, fully aware that if Sal found out, he’d try to strong-arm half of it from me.

After a long day, I pushed open the front door and spotted a note taped to the fridge, scrawled in familiar handwriting.

Hey Brynie, I won’t be home tonight so you’ve got plenty of time to get stuff done. I left you a little list to keep you busy.

To-Do

Finish my meal prep for the week (it’s not hard, just follow the instructions)

Change my sheets and make my bed (don’t mess it up)

Wash, dry, and fold my laundry (obviously I couldn’t trust myself to do it)

Iron my outfit for tomorrow (I need to look good, you know)

Vacuum and dust the house (don’t skip the corners this time)

Reggie

I’m starting to think this man can’t do a thing for himself. He acts like I’m here to serve him, like I’m bound to obey every one of his commands.

Have I thought about leaving? Of course—more than I care to admit. But it’s a luxury I can’t afford. Even if I managed to escape, I’m certain he’d track me down. He’s made that very clear with threats wrapped in a dangerous blend of anger and entitlement.

He’s warned me about the consequences if I ever defy him, or as he so elegantly put it, try to run.

After ticking off every task on Reggie’s list, I rewarded myself with a quiet evening of reading. I climbed into bed and lost myself in my favorite story.

This time, though, I let my imagination run wild, casting the intriguing stranger Ezekiel as the leading man. He was the perfect fit: powerful yet sensitive, effortlessly charming, and breathtakingly handsome.

At first, the thought unsettled me. The last time my mind wandered to him, I’d felt a little guilty, like I was indulging in something reckless, even dangerous. Or maybe I’d just been embarrassed to admit I’d thought of a stranger that way.

But now? I let it happen. Maybe it was exhaustion. Or maybe it was the truth:

I liked the way he made me feel.

In the fictional world of my thoughts, he was the hero I longed for. And instead of pushing that feeling away, I sank into it .

To my surprise, I found comfort in those fantasies.

As I slipped into sleep, I wished, just for a moment, that imagination could merge with reality.