Page 1 of Fated to the Gargoyle

1

TREASURE

Andy, the owner of Stanley’s Diner, keeps looking from me to my resume and back again. Whatever he’s after, he hasn’t found it yet.

I sit across from him in the booth with my hands folded and try to be patient while this man decides if I’m worthy of pouring coffee and carrying plates. My stomach’s been flipping since I sat down. It’s a waitress position. What does he think I’m going to lie about?

Six years I’ve been waiting tables. Sore feet, aching back, customers snapping their fingers at me like I’m a dog, and I still haven’t dropped a plate—not even running a full Saturday-night section alone. I’m good at this. That has to count for something.

He’s not even listening.

He frowns at the resume and rubs his forehead. His thin hair sticks up in every direction, and his tie hangs crooked at the collar. His work shirt has a ketchup stain near the second button and a smear of mustard on the sleeve. His apron is worse—burger grease, what looks like coffee, and something I can’t identify near the pocket. This man is interviewing me looking like the kitchen fought him and won.

“Hello?” I say. He still hasn’t made it past the same line.

He glances up. His eyes are sharp, though.

“What brings you to Shadow Wolf Creek?”

The way he asks it tells me everything. He’s sizing me up.

“Another new woman,” he mutters before I can answer, leaning back in the booth. “Hoping she’ll slip into town and find her fated mate.”

I narrow my eyes at him.

Yes, that’s partially why I came here. The stories pulled me in, the idea of fated mates, of someone out there who was made for you. But I also left behind a life that wasn’t working and a city that was bleeding me dry. That’s not any of his business, though.

“With all due respect, I don’t see how my reasons for moving here are any of your business.”

He smirks at that and sets my resume down.

Oh, hell no. I didn’t pack everything I own into a hatchback and drive across the country to get dismissed by a man with mustard on his shirt.

The floors are checkered, the booths are red vinyl cracked at the seams, and bacon grease is baked into every surface. The place isn’t fancy, but I’ve worked worse, and I’ve made worse look good.

“You’ve got ten booths,” I tell him. “Plus six stools at the counter. I could handle both sections on your busiest day. Alone.”

He blinks. I don’t think anyone’s talked to him about his own diner like this.

I nod toward the counter. “And your coffee pot is outdated. You’re burning through grounds twice as fast as you should and serving bitter coffee.”

He turns to the coffee pot, then back to me. He doesn’t say anything, and that tells me I’m right.

“I came here first because I really could use a job, and being a server is my specialty.” I hold his gaze. “But Shadow Suds is also hiring, so maybe I’ll try there.”

I start sliding out of the booth. “Keep the resume. I’ve got like fifty of them. Thank you for your time.”

“Wait.” He holds up a hand. “Hold on.”

I stop but don’t sit back down. The diner is closer to my apartment and the hours work better than Shadow Suds.

“I never said I wasn’t going to give you the job.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

He ignores that. “What I’m saying is, you look like you’re fated.”

I stare at him. I rattled off my entire service resume, told him about his own broken coffee pot, and his takeaway is that I might have a shifter boyfriend waiting in the parking lot?