Page 3

Tessa

“Your order will be right up. Would you like another cup of coffee?”

The elderly man at the counter gives me a gentle smile and lifts his trembling hand with the cup. “Sure, thanks, sweetheart.”

I steady the cup in his hand with my own and pour until the rich scent of dark roast fills the air between us. He gives me a nod of thanks before turning back to his newspaper, his hands still slightly unsteady.

I slide back to the far end of the counter, resting my elbows on the laminate surface, and stare out the wide front window.

The view of the water, just past the weathered docks and the rust-streaked shipping containers, always has a way of grounding me.

The waves are calm this morning, the kind of quiet that feels like it’s holding its breath.

The sun glints off the rippling surface, casting golden streaks across the port. It never gets old.

No matter what kind of chaos is happening inside me, that water? It brings peace.

“Tessa, what time do you get off?” Megan’s voice pulls me out of the silence.

I glance over at her as she pops a stick of gum in her mouth, her apron already stained from the morning rush. “I’m here till close.”

“I figured,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Would you mind if I took an hour later? I wanna grab dinner with Jake.”

“Yeah, go ahead,” I reply with a soft smile. “I’ve got it covered.”

“You’re the best!”

I wave her off and reach for the Reuben sandwich that’s been set on the window by the cook. The scent of grilled rye and pastrami makes my stomach growl, even though I know I won’t eat until way later. I bring it to the older man, setting the plate down gently in front of him.

“There you go. Let me know if you need anything else.”

He nods again and I return to my post behind the counter, the usual hum of the diner wrapping around me like a familiar song. The dishes clinking, coffee dripping, the low murmur of conversations. Being here feels safe. Like nothing from my past can reach me here.

Newport has been good to me. Quiet. Simple.

I’ve been here a few years now, and not much has changed.

I haven’t really made friends outside of work, but I think I like it that way.

It’s not that people are bad, it’s just that I don’t trust them to stay.

And if you don’t let anyone in, you don’t have to worry about them walking away.

I’ve had a couple of flings, guys just passing through. Port workers, truckers, once even a guy who claimed to be a Navy SEAL on leave. Nothing serious. Nothing permanent. I don’t do ties. Ties become chains.

The truth is, I’ve been surviving on my own since I was sixteen.

Ran from the kind of home no one talks about over breakfast. Lived on the street.

Slept in shelters. Took jobs that paid in tips and meals, and just enough to scrape by.

I fought for every single second of this life, and I’m not about to let anyone come in and shake it up.

Working the counter is my favorite. You meet the most interesting people.

The locals, wanderers, men with rough hands and tattoos they don’t explain.

I’ve heard stories here that would break your heart.

Others that had me crying with laughter.

It’s like being a bartender without the booze.

People open up to me. Confess things they probably wouldn’t even tell their priest.

But me? I keep my secrets locked up tight.

And today, like every other day, I tell myself that’s exactly how I want it.

Alone.

Untangled.

Safe.

And yet, there’s this ache I can’t shake. Buried deep under my skin, pulsing in the quiet moments. It’s not just loneliness, it’s the yearning to be seen. For someone to look past the smile, the small talk, the coffee refills, and see me. The real me.

As if fate was eavesdropping, the door swings open, the bell above it jingling just before it slams shut. And in he walks, Torrent.

Trouble wrapped in leather and swagger. The kind of man every mother warns her daughter about. The kind I should have learned to stay away from a long time ago.

And yet, every time he walks in here, it’s like my pulse goes hunting for his.

We’ve been playing this little game for months, him flirting like it’s his second language, and me pretending like it drives me crazy. The truth is, I live for it. His attention is a high, I haven’t found anywhere else.

And worse, he keeps me up at night. Not just the fantasies, God, there are so many of those, but the questions. What’s he doing right now? Who is he when I’m not around? And why the hell does it feel like we’ve known each other longer than the walls of this diner allow?

My gaze tracks him as he strides to the counter, that signature smirk already forming on his lips like he knows exactly what he's doing to me. He slides onto the stool like it belongs to him.

I grab a mug and the pot of coffee and saunter over to him, grinning without meaning to. He brings that out of me, the effortless smiles I forget to guard.

As I pour his coffee, he reaches up and catches my hand in his, calloused, warm, and possessive, without squeezing too tight.

“You know how sexy it’d be waking up to you pouring me coffee every morning?” His voice is low, velvet over gravel, and it sends a shiver straight down my spine.

I arch a brow, tugging my hand back gently. “We open at six in the morning.”

He lets out a chuckle, something between amused and exasperated. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

I lean in just a little, close enough that I can smell the leather and smoke clinging to him. His grin spreads like sin.

“I don’t pour coffee unless I’m getting paid to do it,” I tease, giggling as I walk off to return the pot.

When I come back with my notepad, he’s still watching me like I’m the most interesting thing in the room. It’s a look that both warms me and sets my walls higher.

“Alright, Torrent,” I say, cocking a hip. “What’ll it be today?”

“The coffee’s enough,” he mutters, eyes down on the cup.

That’s not like him. He always pushes. Always plays. But today, there’s something under the surface, something heavier.

I set the pad down and lean forward on the counter, just enough for a hint of cleavage to show. Unprofessional? Maybe. But I know what I’m doing. And I know what it does to him.

“What’s got you so down today?” I ask, voice softer now.

His eyes lift slowly and trail from my chest to my face, then back again like he’s trying to memorize the route.

“Nothing brings me down, sweetheart.” He winks, but it doesn’t hit with the usual punch.

I rest my hand lightly over his, the contact sending a jolt through me. How something so simple can feel so intimate, I’ll never understand.

“Of course not. A big, strong guy like you.” I flash a grin, squeezing his hand before reluctantly pulling away. “But seriously, you know I’m a good listener.”

He grabs my hand again, this time bringing it to his lips. The soft press of his mouth to my palm steals my breath before he lets go.

“You’re sweet, Tessa. But I’m good.”

I step back, trying to hide the way my heart’s tripping all over itself. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

He leans back on his stool, arms folded. “That’s it? I come in here looking for some Tessa time, and you’re just gonna walk away?”

I laugh, throwing my head back. “Tessa time? What the hell kind of line is that?”

His grin is lazy, smug, and devastating. “That laugh…” he says, tapping the counter like it’s a beat he’s chasing. “It’s become my favorite sound in the world.”

“Oh, please.” I shake my head, trying to keep the flutter in my chest from showing. “What about ocean waves or birds chirping? Rain on the roof? All those cliché poetic things?”

He takes a sip of coffee, dark eyes holding mine with such intensity that I almost look away. Almost.

“Those might be your favorites,” he says, setting the mug down. “But you don’t get to tell me mine. Your laugh? It soothes me in ways I don’t even understand.”

That hits deeper than I expect.

Because he means it. I can feel that he means it.

And this is the part that messes me up. When the game slips, and it feels like something real is bleeding through.

I know who he is. I’ve seen that patch on his cut. The word President stitched across the leather like a warning sign. He lives in a world that turns good girls into ghosts.

And yet, if I didn’t know that, if I’d never seen that cut, I think I’d already be his.

Still, I try to brush it off.

“How many other diner girls have you fed that line to?” I ask, cocking a brow.

He leans forward, and for a moment, the teasing’s gone. His voice drops, rough and honest in a way that makes my breath catch.

“Tessa, sweetheart, you have no idea what you do to me. If you think I’m feeding you lines, then you haven’t been paying attention.

” He inches even closer, and my pulse races.

“You’re in my thoughts. You haunt my fucking dreams. I’m not giving you some rehearsed script.

I’m telling you my truths. One day you’ll see that.

Until then, I’ll take whatever time you give me.

Because you, sweetheart, you give me hope. Real fucking hope.”

I freeze.

Because no one’s ever said something like that to me. Not with that kind of weight. Not like it could change things.

I don’t know what to say. But I don’t look away.

Because deep down, I don’t want to.

He’s pulling me in.

And I’m starting to wonder if I should fight it or just let myself drown.

I watch him sip his coffee like he didn’t just drop a bomb on my entire emotional state.

Hope.

He said I give him hope. Not interest. Not fun. Not even lust, though I know that’s there too. He said hope, and it’s still ringing in my ears like a church bell I didn’t ask to hear.

I swallow hard and turn away, pretending to wipe down the already-clean counter. My hand is shaking, but I make sure it doesn’t show. Not to him. Not to the man who could ruin me just by looking at me like that one more time.

God, why does he have to be him?

Why couldn’t it be some sweet, safe guy with a nine-to-five and a golden retriever? Someone who calls his mom every Sunday and remembers your birthday?

Why did it have to be a biker with a dangerous smile and a patch that screams run?

I glance at him over my shoulder. He’s staring into his cup like it holds the answers to the universe, like if he stares long enough, it might tell him what to do next. Or maybe he’s just letting me breathe. Maybe he knows he hit a nerve.

And the worst part?

He did.

Because everything I’ve built here, the walls, the solitude, the quiet life, I built it for one reason: to feel safe. After everything I left behind in Oklahoma, I needed peace. I needed space. I needed control.

And then Torrent walked in with his knowing eyes and his dark past, and this stupid, ridiculous way he makes me laugh when I least expect it.

And now?

Now, I’m spiraling.

Because the way he talks to me, it’s not just lines. I’ve dated the smooth-talking type before. I know how to spot a player from a mile away. But Torrent? He says things that stick to my ribs. That live in the back of my throat like something I almost swallowed but never quite did.

And maybe I don’t want to swallow it down.

I press my hands to the counter, grounding myself, trying to slow my breathing.

I’m not a girl who falls easily. I don’t even let myself fall.

But today I feel the pull.

I feel myself inching closer to the edge of something dangerous and beautiful and completely out of my control.

“You good, Tess?” Megan’s voice startles me.

I jump and nod too quickly. “Yeah. Yep. Totally fine.”

She eyes me like she knows better but doesn’t push. Thank God.

I glance back toward Torrent and find him already watching me, eyes dark and soft, like he’s memorizing the shape of my anxiety and trying to soothe it from across the room.

And it almost works.

I grab a carafe and move down the line, checking on the regulars, forcing a smile and some half-assed small talk. But the whole time, my mind’s spinning.

Because now I can’t stop wondering…

What if I let him in?

What if I stopped pretending I don’t care?

What if I let myself want?

What if he’s telling the truth?

But more terrifying than all of that.

What if I do and he leaves anyway?