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“Me either, to be honest.” That bright smile of hers I live for lights up her face. “With a little more caffeine and Max’s superb cooking, you’ll be ready for the day in no time.”
“Max makes the best breakfast in town. Hands down.” I lean forward and inwardly groan when her sweet scent hits my nose. “But you didn’t hear that from me,” I say, a breath above a whisper. “People may have me arrested for choosing a town favorite.”
Her smile tugs impossibly higher as she rolls her eyes. “And who will put you in handcuffs,OfficerEmerson?” Kirsten reaches across the counter and taps the Stone Bay Police Department patch on the sleeve of my uniform shirt.
Damn, I love when she flirts back. Even if it’s just a little, I love the rush in my veins when she teases in return. “In this small town, you never know what the day will bring.”
Isn’t that the truth. Majority of the time, the department responds to non-emergency calls. Lonely elderly that need human interaction. Someone who burned food on the stove and wants to be sure they won’t burn down the house. Lost pets. Parents “teaching” rowdy children lessons.
Every once in a while, we get serious calls. But it’s been years since Stone Bay’s been on the map for a grievous crime such as murder, arson, trafficking, or kidnapping. Kirsten’s friend, Skylar, being held hostage months ago by a small group of embezzlers was the biggest news since my time on the force. But the news never left Stone Bay. And if that’s the worst I have to deal with during my service, I consider myself lucky.
Stone Bay isn’t a sleepy town. With wealth comes problems. None of us are ignorant of that fact, but we do our damnedest to keep the town as calm and pleasant as possible.
A bell chimes from the counter separating the kitchen from the server alley. Kirsten leans back and stands tall and I immediately miss her proximity. Her scent. Her.
“Looks like yours.” She grabs the ticket beneath the plate and stabs it on the check spindle. Swiping up the plate, she spins around and delivers my breakfast. “Egg white omelet with onions, peppers, and steak, no cheese, and a side of fruit.” She pops a hip and rests her hand on it. “Anything else?”
I unroll my silverware as my stomach rumbles. “Not at the moment.”
“Perfect.” She flashes me a smile. “Be back shortly. Need to check on my other tables.”
Kirsten wanders off as I dig into my breakfast. The first bite of omelet hits my tongue and I moan. As always, Max has outdone herself. She adds the perfect amount of her unique spice blend to my breakfast every day. Though I tend to eat simple meals, Max’s small touches make basic eggs taste magical.
Years ago, before Polk the Yolk was part of my daily routine, I’d gotten the worst upset stomach after dining out. At the time, I thought it was food poisoning. But when it happened again and again, I visited the doctor and learned all about lactose intolerance. The news had been upsetting. No one wants to stop eating cheese or ice cream.
Shortly after the news, I’d stopped in Polk the Yolk for breakfast and asked what did and didn’t have milk in it. Sweetheart that she is, Max showed me how to enjoy old favorites in a new way. She whipped me up the best dairy-free scrambled eggs and biscuits with sausage gravy. Since that day, Polk the Yolk has been my primary breakfast source.
The quaint breakfast and brunch restaurant has since made adjustments to the menu, offering a variety of options for dietary restrictions. I like to believe it was done for me, but Max would smack me upside the head if I voiced such an egotistical opinion.
Boisterous laughter fills the air and I glance across the dining room, spotting Kirsten as she nervously smiles at a man in the booth against the far wall. She lifts a hand to the base of her throat and toys with her necklace while the yuppie prick smiles back. Then he leans in closer and says something only for her ears. Her cheeks flush a beautiful shade of pink, her smile falters momentarily, and my stomach twists.
A loud clang draws the attention of everyone as my fork hits my plate. I make no move to apologize as I pick up my coffee and drain the mug.
She isn’t yours, Emerson. Get a fucking grip.
No matter how much I remind myself of this small fact, it still pisses me off to see someone flirting with her five minutes after she leaned across the counter and flashed me her smile—and cleavage. She does it for better tips, this much I know. Almost everyone in hospitality flirts to some degree. Comes with the territory. Smiley, happy people who seem interested inyouearns a fatter paycheck. Period.
Most days, I’m willfully blind to her flirting with other patrons. And it isn’t odd for me to be so lost in thought or stressed about work that I ignore my surroundings when here.
But seeing her flirt with other men… did I really believe I was so fucking special she only gavemeher attention?
Fucking idiot.
Sour mood firmly in place, I pick up my fork and tap the tines against my mug. Kirsten stops giving Mr. Pretentious her sparkly eyes and glances in my direction. I hold up my mug and purse my lips. Her cheeks flush a darker pink as she nods. Resting a hand on his shoulder, she apologizes, then heads my way.
“Sorry,” she says, grabbing the coffee pot and refilling my mug. “The guy would not let me leave.”
“From here, it seemed you were into the conversation.”
Her brows twitch as she reads my expression. Yep, I am officially the asshole acting possessive over someone I have no right to claim. And by the look on her face, she wants to tell me as much.
Fucking idiot.
She turns away, giving me her back as she sets up the coffee maker to brew a new pot. “You want coffee to go today?”
Taking a deep breath, I hold it and count to ten. On the exhale, I relax my shoulders and shove aside my ego. “Kirsten.” Her name is soft on my tongue. “I’m sorry.”
She shakes her head, her ponytail swishing across the nape of her neck. “Yes or no to the coffee?”
