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The pulsing shriek of his alarm clock shattered the dream into fragments of disturbing images.
Brock lay in the pre-dawn darkness, his heart pounding. His cock aching with morning wood and the phantom sensation of having his skin clawed to ribbons clung to him.
The sense of wrongness had persisted as he dragged himself through his morning routine, then headed for the diner.
Now, Terri popped into the kitchen. “Mrs. S and Summer just showed up,” she reported. “They want to talk to you… oh, and they both ordered the chicken pot pie.”
She stuck the ticket on the round, stainless steel ticket holder, grabbed the plate with the finished burger and fries, and disappeared back into the dining room.
Brock groaned and headed for the cooler, where the rounds of buttery puff pastry dough he’d prepped this morning were stored.
“Bad news, boss?” Marlene asked when Brock returned.
“Nope,” he said, with more confidence than he felt as he began ladling the rich chicken and vegetable chowder from a stockpot simmering on the stove. He filled a pair of ramekins and topped each of them with a round of chilled dough, pressing firmly to seal the edges.
He shoved the ramekins into the oven to bake for twenty minutes, and started assembling the side salads for the specials. While he worked, he rehearsed what he was going to say to Mrs. S when he brought out her meal.
To start with, he was going to point out all the changes he’d already made overnight.
He imagined the look of triumph on Summer Snowberry’s face when she noticed that he’d taken some of her advice. It made his stomach churn.
But just because she’d given him some valuable tips didn’t mean that he wanted Ms. Fancy Pants Chef breathing down his neck. He had to convince Mrs. S that he’d be okay without her granddaughter’s “help.”
Hell, Marlene would probably quit on the spot if Summer tried bossing his assistant cook around.
“Boss!” Terri burst into the kitchen. “You gotta come quick! Mrs. Snowberry is having a heart attack or stroke or something!”
Brock’s stomach dropped. He stopped slicing tomatoes. “Did you call 911?”
Wide-eyed, Terri nodded. “But you’re with the fire department, right?”
“Not anymore.” Regret lanced through him as he grabbed the kitchen’s first aid kit from the wall and sprinted for the dining room.
Before Mama died, Brock had been one of the town’s volunteer firefighters. He’d been forced to resign his position once he started running The Yummy Cowboy Diner. But he still missed the work—and the respect he’d finally earned after years of being known as Mrs. Michael’s wild kid.
The first thing he saw upon entering the dining room was a group of curious diners gathered around one of the booths. A babble of suggestions and instructions rose from the onlookers, most of them dead wrong.
“Back to your seats, everyone,” he shouted, pushing his way ruthlessly through the onlookers. “Give us some room.”
The crowd melted away, though not without lingering, avidly-fascinated glances at the tableau.
Mrs. S’s eyes were closed and her carefully made-up face shone with sweat as she slumped, apparently unconscious, against the back of the same booth she’d occupied yesterday.
Summer had pulled the table out of the booth. As Brock approached, she was bent over her grandmother, taking her pulse.
“Is she breathing?” he demanded.
Summer nodded. “Her pulse is weak but not dropping noticeably,” she reported, cluing Brock in that she’d had some kind of first aid training.
Oh thank God!thought Brock.
Despite his current opposition to her plan, he liked Mrs. S a lot.
“I think she’s having a heart attack,” Summer said. “Just before she passed out, it looked like her neck and left arm were bothering her. I should’veknownsomething was wrong!”
Brock nodded. Those were classic heart attack symptoms.
He reacted to the distress in Summer’s voice by automatically placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. The warmth of her smooth skin startled him.
