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Anger surges through me at the brush-off. And just as I contemplate smashing the bell into something unrecognizable, my mother says her farewells and leaves.
Mac takes the plate off the ledge and throws me an annoyed look before storming off. I watch her walk across the dining room, her luscious hips swaying with her graceful movements, and a deep feeling of yearning wells up inside, almost to the point that I could drown in it.
“I told you, man,” Wyatt says, dragging my attention over to him, watching me with a grim look. “Get your shit together.”
Thickness clogs my throat, and a sense of urgency twists my gut into a painful knot.
He’s right. I do need to get my shit together. But where do I even start?
CHAPTER4
MACKENZIE
Pushing the last chair under the table, I quickly scan the dining area to make sure everything looks in order before rolling my shoulders and attempting to unravel the knots that have formed in my muscles from the day.
It’s been one long-ass day, and how I managed to survive it with the hangover from hell is a miracle in itself.
The last customer left half an hour ago, along with Wyatt and Charlotte—who also got stuck working a double—leaving Owen and me to close up for the night.
A loud clank echoes from the kitchen, and I glance over to the pass-through to see Owen scrubbing a pot in the sink and a feeling of unease ripples through me.
He’s been weird all day. In fact, he’s barely spoken two words to me since that whole incident with Violet and the flowers this morning. It was a twisted game I played. A game that could have backfired royally.
Violet has made it no secret that she wants Owen back. With the way she’s been strutting into the diner regularly and offering herself up to him like a bitch in heat, the girl has had no shame in making her intentions known.
Owen’s made it abundantly clear to her and the entire town that he’s not interested. So the fact that I stirred up that hornet’s nest may have incidentally pushed the boundaries too far.
But with me still reeling from him leaving me locked in the storage closet for fifteen minutes—because my dad is yet to get the inside latch fixed—and refusing to let me out until I declared he was hotter than Liam Hemsworth without a shirt on, I needed to up my game.
And by the looks of things, it has been a success. However, rather than reveling in my victory, I can’t stop that feeling of regret tugging on my chest that this was crossing way over the line.
Blowing out a breath, I shut the lights off in the dining area, then collect the last dirty glasses off the counter and make my way to the kitchen.
As I enter through the doors, the sight of Owen standing at the sink, sans chef jacket and wearing a white tank top that hugs his muscular torso, has a flurry of heat swirling in my belly.
Even though he doesn’t play football anymore, he’s done well at keeping his body in top shape. His large back strains against the fabric of his tank, showcasing every dip and curve of his masculine frame.
The muscles in his broad shoulders and arms contract with the movement of his hands, scrubbing the large pot in the sink. And even though he’s wearing loose pants, you can still make out the outline of an ass that looks like it’s been carved out of stone.
Dragging my eyes away and giving myself a mental slap for blatantly ogling him, I make my way over to the dishwasher next to him and open the door.
The familiar scent of leather and spice emitting from Owen wafts into my nose, and sneaking a sidelong glance in his direction, I watch as his brows draw in as if concentrating hard on the task at hand.
He’s yet to notice my presence, which is unlike him. Usually, he’s on me like white on rice.
While I should be grateful that he’s granting me some reprieve from his relentless teasing, the sudden shift in his overall behavior has nerves wreaking havoc on my insides.
The urge to apologize to him tickles the end of my tongue, but knowing the response would most likely be some smart-ass comeback, I decide to let it go and stack the glasses in the dishwasher.
A spray of water hits me square on the chest, and I gasp, looking down to see droplets of water and suds seeping into my uniform.
Peering up, I spot Owen watching me with an impish grin, and a sense of relief flows through me in a steady stream, calming the anxiety that’s been churning in my stomach.
If he’s messing with me, then it means he’s not that mad at me, which is something I can’t help but feel grateful for. However, I don’t know why he always insists on doing things to push my buttons. Having to make my way home in a wet uniform on a cold winter night most definitely pushes them hard.
“What the hell are you doing?” I snap, sweeping my hands down the front of my uniform.
“You look a little wound up. I figured you needed to cool off.” He shrugs.
