Page 32 of Small Town Boy

“Keep the change, Kitty.”

In a whirlwind of movements, he hands her the bill, grabs the jar and then my hand, leading me away from the booth. Our palms press together, his strong fingers surrounding mine, making me feel safe and cherished. And also more than a little on display, since I can still feel Kitty’s eyes watching us.

Once we’re far enough away that I’m sure she can’t see us through the crowd, I stop, dropping Noel’s hand. I miss it instantly. But I can’t keep holding it. That’s not going to lead to anything good.

“Thank you, but you didn’t have to⁠—”

“Couldn’t let Kitty get her claws into you.”

“Who is she?” The question flies out before I even have the chance to think better of it. Or at least word it a little more politely.

Noel lets out another grunt, his lips moving as he tries to figure out how best to answer. “Short version—she’s Willa’s rival.”

“Rival? Willa has a rival?”

“Ask her about it.”

“Oh, I will.”

There’s a story there. One I cannot wait to hear.

“D’you eat yet? How does breakfast sound?”

“Breakfast?” I laugh. He can’t be serious. “It’s eleven a.m.”

“Fine, brunch, or whatever you Yankees call it. Let me take you.”

He takes my hand again, giving it a squeeze. It feels natural, like something we would do on any given Saturday morning on our trip to the farmers’ market.

“Pretty sure it’s me who owes you currently.”

“You can pay me back by letting me take you to breakfast. Dolly’s is right around the corner.”

“You mean I can take you to breakfast,” I correct him.

“Nope. Letting me take you.” He speaks slower, a brief pause in between each word to drive home the point.

Okay, okay, message received…

“You confuse the hell out of me, Noel Keller.”

“That makes two of us.”

10

NOEL

Walking into Dolly’s some days is a crapshoot. Our local greasy spoon is rarely empty—there’s always someone from town hanging out. Still, you can sometimes find mornings where everything is calm, quiet, and you’re left alone to think. Other mornings, it’s like the entire town is crammed into the small diner, carefully balancing the seeing and being seen, while enjoying a true southern breakfast.

This morning is definitely the latter.

I hold the door open for Bronwyn, letting her walk in before me, and suddenly the place seems to come to a halt. I can feel a dozen sets of eyes on us instantly, an almost borderline imperceptible shift in the chatter. It takes a trained ear to pick it up, one that I’ve developed over the last thirty years of growing up here.

I ignore it though, signaling to Dolly McLain, owner, operator, and granddaughter of the namesake, that I need a table for two. She gestures toward the back corner with her head, mid coffee refill for a table in the middle of the diner, indicating the far booth is open. Perfect.

“Follow me.”

Slipping my hand into Bronwyn’s, I guide her to the booth I’ve come to think of as mine. It’s the preferred spot when I make it over here for breakfast, whether it’s with the family, the guys, or just Nash and me. Today, it’s for me and the woman who has done nothing but occupy my thoughts since she hopped up into my truck.