“She’s busy.” I don’t want to tell him that she isn’t here. That I’m on my own. But they sit, watching me for a moment, hearing nothing. No pots banging in the back, no people talking. He knows no one else is here.
“Looks like your eye healed just fine…” His words hang in the air. The other guys look at me, and my jaw tightens.
“So what would you like?” I raise my pen and notepad again, keeping the conversation on track. The sooner they eat, the sooner they go.
“Hmmm, how ’bout you tell me what you like.” His tongue dashes out to lick his bottom lip again before his hand shoots out and grabs my thigh. Jolting, I slap his hand away.
“Don’t touch me,” I spit out, fear almost consuming me.
His hand immediately comes back, sliding up my leg and landing on my ass. I freeze for a moment before I slap him away again.
“I said, don’t touch me!” My voice is a mix of anger and fear. I’m terrified. With shaking hands, I try to remain confident. But right now, I’m stuck. I look out the window at the sleepy small-town Main Street, watching for someone I might know to walk past, but there’s no one.
“Aw, look boys, she doesn’t like everyone touching her, just the guy who usually sits in the back,” he mocks me, and his friends laugh.
“Is he your boyfriend or something?” one of his friends asks.
“If you’re not ordering, then I think you should leave.” I try to sound professional, yet stern. I’m not sure what Rochelle will think of me turning away paying customers; I’d hate to ruin things for her here by sending them away, but I’m in survival mode now.
“You’re cute when you’re angry,” the leader of the group says as they all look at me like I’m their lunch. I take a deep breath, my head spinning with how to get myself out of this mess.
“You need to leave,” I grit out as his hand comes back to my leg, and I try to step away, out of his reach.
“Are you hungry, sugar? Because I sure as hell have something for you to eat.” He grabs his crotch, and his friends laugh some more. Cringing, I swallow roughly as he stands, towering over me, his hand grabbing my upper arm, just as I hear the familiar squeak of the back door opening.
Then all hell breaks loose, and my quiet, hidden life unravels.
35
Sutton
“What’s it like today?” My words sound clear, my face feeling a little swollen but nothing like previously.
“It’s actually looking great.” Hudson checks me over before throwing a cool pack my way. I did my immunotherapy in the morning this time, giving me plenty of time to recover so I can still make it to the diner before Charlotte’s shift ends.
“That’s good, right?” I put the cool pad against my lips.
“Well, it means it’s working. Another few doses, and your allergy may be nearly nonexistent. You will always have to be careful, though.”
“Shit, so I’m cured?” Excitement takes over my face. That would mean I could get the beehives going for Charlotte.
“With each treatment, you’re getting better and better. Looking at you now, I can’t even really tell that you have an allergy. So your histamine reaction has reduced rapidly.”
“Good. I want to start building the hives soon.”
Hudson quirks an eyebrow at me. “Soooo Nikki? Your brother tells me you’re never home anymore. Hiding out with her, I hear?”
I would beam if I could, but my lips feel too tight. It’s been weeks now of being with her. I’m sure most of the town suspects that we’re together, but only my closest friends really know the truth. Any and all thoughts I may have had about getting her out of my system are null and void. She’s in my system. Deeply embedded. I crave her daily. Can’t function without seeing her. Every afternoon, I’m at the diner, pretending to help Preston with his homework before I drive them home. I usually grab us dinner, spend the night with them, Preston going to bed, and I get to have her all to myself. That’s my favorite part of my day. It's now our routine, and I don't ever want it to change.
“Yeah,” I say with a smile.
“That’s it? Yeah? Is Mr. Sutton Silvers, international movie star, billionaire bachelor, the man every woman wants in her bed, lost for words?” He looks at me like I’ve grown a second head.
At that, how I really feel tumbles from my lips. “What do you want from me? You want me to tell you that she’s fucking amazing? That she’s smart as well as beautiful? That I could listen to her from sunup to sundown? That I could sit at that fucking diner all day, every day, just watching her?”
“You already do that. From what I hear, Rochelle does a roaring trade on the chicken pies lately, all because you order them for lunch and dinner most nights.”
“Well, they are delicious.” So is my girl, I think, keeping that tidbit to myself.
