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Ever sinceithappened . . . well, since the incident, as we call it, Zoey gets migraines. They get so bad sometimes, she actually blacks out. She can’t speak or eat or even move for hours, occasionally even longer than that. It got to such a scary point that I took her to the hospital and they prescribed her some medication to help manage the episodes, but it’s expensive. It keeps her healthy and out of pain, though, so I scrape by and make sure I have it for her when I can.
Which isn’t as often as I would like.
Through my reverie, I hear hoots and calls as I cross the road, the diner looming just ahead. The cheap, outdated, musty-looking establishment makes my nose crinkle. It’s all I could get with no high school diploma and no prior experience. I’m lucky I have a job; I know that. Still, as I round the stinky alley, pass the overflowing trash bins, and hop over rats to the open back door, I wish my life were better.
But life only gets better if you make it so.
I suck it up, putting my bag and jacket in my locker, and tie on my apron. I smile and wave at the cooks in the kitchen and grab a pad and pen before heading to the front of the diner to wait tables for the next ten hours straight.
Three hours in, my stomach is clenching with hunger pangs, my feet hurt, and my head rings from the rude customers. My apron is sparse of tips, thanks to the cheapskates who come in here at this time of night.
I hear the bell above the door chime, and I jerk my head up. My heart starts to race when I see him walk in—my mystery man with the cerulean eyes. He has short black hair with a chiseled jaw darkened with stubble, a bumpy, broken-too-many-times nose, and sharp cheekbones that only add to the dangerously mysterious aura about him. He’s incredibly handsome, which only makes him stand out more amongst such unflattering surroundings. Wearing an expensive leather jacket, luxurious black jeans, and a tight white T-shirt that shows off his impressive muscles, he’s the polar opposite of the usual clientele, yet for as long as I can remember, he comes every day, rain or shine. He always sits in my section, but he never talks and hardly ever drinks the horrible coffee he orders. Instead, the mug usually sits lukewarm and untouched while he just . . . watches me.
As always, his gaze roves over the sticky booths and tables before landing on me. The shock of meeting those bright blue eyes locks me in place, holding me captive as my heart pounds and my palms turn sweaty.
“Hey, enough!” The rude voice snaps me back to reality, and I look down to see I’m spilling coffee all over a table.
Fuck.
“I’m so sorry!” I say, grabbing a towel and wiping up the mess as the patron grumbles. When I’m done and look back up, my mystery man is already seated, watching me. His jacket is off, sitting in the booth beside him, and his arm is spread across the backrest, showing the intricate, beautiful tattoos spanning his bicep. His thick arms and huge hands make my mouth water.
I wouldn’t often call a man beautiful, but he’s exactly that. There’s something so unique about him, so utterly captivating, that I often dream of him—usually in a dirty way. I like to imagine those large, scarred hands touching my sensitive flesh. It’s unladylike, I know, yet I can’t help myself. He would probably stop coming in if he realized how much I perv on him all the time. He’s clearly not from around these parts though, so why does he come here? He’s not like the boys who try to chase me or the old farts coming from work to stare at my ass while drinking their beer, and he’s definitely not like the homeless who pop in begging for a meal.
No, he’s rich, scary, and downright sexy.
And right now, he’s crooking his finger at me like I’m a naughty girl. So what do I do? I cross the black and white tile floor, hurrying to him like someone just lit a fire under my ass. Swallowing nervously, I smooth my hands down my uniform like the action will purge it of the dirty stains covering most of the fabric.
“Hi, what can I get you?” I squeak before I sweep my tongue over my lips, wetting them.
He watches the action intently, his eyes darkening with something forbidden. I almost gasp at the alluring sight, stumbling against the table just to keep myself from falling.
Brilliant.
Smooth, Layla. Real smooth.
“Coffee,” is all he says before he turns and looks out the windows lining the front of the diner.
Now free from his penetrating gaze, I slump and quickly rush to the back of the diner to catch my breath.
“You should just screw him already,” Will, one of the cooks, jokes.
I smile and duck my head instead of giving Will a reply. He’s always giving me shit and teasing me, but he’s a good man and often sneaks me food without ever saying anything to the owner about it.
In my dreams, I think to myself as I make his coffee how he likes it, wincing at the chipped old mug it’s going in. I force myself to approach his table and hand it over. He takes it from me, like always, brushing his finger against mine. Electricity thrums through my body and shoots straight to my throbbing clit.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, his voice dark and smoky, the mug looking dainty and tiny in his hands.
I nod and swiftly move away, getting back to work. As I take orders and bus tables, I sneakily look at him. He watches me the entire time, as if I’m his whole focus. I might find it unnerving if it wasn’t for the comforting sensation I feel when I’m around him. With just one look, he makes me feel safe from everything. It’s a strange and disturbing feeling for a girl like me.
His blue gaze calls to me, almost like I’ve seen them in another life, but I can’t place it. I grab the coffee carafe and head over, refilling his mug even though he’s only sipped it.
“So, been up to anything?” I ask, but instead of the witty banter I’m hoping to coax from him, all he does is look at me. I cock my hip out and smile, unable to help myself. “You know, conversations work a whole lot better when two people do it,” I tease, leaning in and touching his arm to flirt, but he jerks it back as if he were burned by my touch.
My cheeks heat as he turns away, grabbing the spoon in a white-knuckle grip as he stirs his coffee, dismissing me. Humiliated, I scurry away with my tail tucked between my legs.
Idiot. Of course he doesn’t want to flirt with you, never mind talk to you. Men like him are out of your league, Layla. You can look, but never touch. That little fiasco proves it.
Stupid, so stupid.
