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KIRSTEN
“You’re goingto break the glass if you stare any harder.”
I snap out of my wandering thoughts, thoughts I should definitelynotbe having at work, and glare at Oliver. His brows lift in challenge, goading me to disagree. Silently begging me to give him the opportunity to say more. To make me confess what had me so distracted that I’ve been rolling the same set of silverware for the past five minutes.
Not happening. Those naughty daydreams are locked up tight.
“You’re one to talk,” I throw back at him. “I didn’t miss you walking into the counter the other day when Levi walked by.” I reenact what I saw, adding a touch of dramatic flair. “But you don’t hear me calling you out on the spot.” Coming back to my stack of silverware, I start a fresh roll. “Because it’s not nice.”
“I did not—”
Holding up my hand, I shake my head. “Yes, you did.”
He rolls his eyes. “Whatever.” Grabbing the bulk salt and pepper containers below the counter, he starts filling the shakers along the diner counter. “Have you done more than flirt with the man? I mean, if there was any chance he was bi, I’d shoot my shot. Gotta love a man in a uniform.” A dreamy look takes over Oliver’s expression.
Eyes glued to the counter, I don’t answer. Instead, I focus on the task at hand.Napkin, knife, fork, spoon. Roll, roll, roll. Napkin band. Repeat.
Honestly, I’ve never been serious with a guy. Not really.
First off, flirting is fun. It’s a different brand of energy than those serious relationship moments. Everything is new and alive and edgy. The smoldering eyes, the constant need to lean in closer, the suggestive smiles, the occasional wink, and that addictive pull.
Not a chance in hell I’m the only person addicted to the high those firsts deliver. The swirling nervousness in your chest. The buzz of anticipation on your skin when he sets his hand near yours and almost touches you. Those minute-long seconds when he stares at your lips, then you stare at his, wondering if he’ll make the first move and kiss you.
God, I live for the rush of those moments.
And second… what if I’m not ready for more than one night with a random guy? What if I don’t want to choose one person to spend the rest of my life with right now? Commitment isn’t a guarantee of keeping someone forever. Pledging your heart and claiming someone else’s doesn’t prevent nightmares from happening. Tragic events painted with lifelong scars.
Life doesn’t come with a guide on what to do and when to do it. We make it up as we go and hope for the best. A ring on your finger doesn’t equal happiness. Doing what feels right in your heart… that is happiness.
I’m not ready to settle on one person. Not now, but maybe one day. And if that day comes, I’ll do my best to welcome it with open arms.
“He does look good in uniform,” I finally say. “Though I much prefer the casual police attire over the dress uniform.”
Oliver wanders off to collect more salt and pepper shakers from tables. I take the momentary reprieve to lose myself in daydreams again. To imagine what Travis Emerson looks likewithouthis uniform on. As heat crawls up my neck and stains my cheeks, Oliver returns with a trayful of shakers.
With a hum, he says, “The man obviously takes care of himself. But distracting me with muscles won’t work. Quit evading my question.” Oliver uncaps all the salt shakers, then gives a pointed stare. A fixed look that says he is not moving on without an answer.
Inwardly, I groan.Fine.
“No, Ollie. I have not done anything other than flirt with Travis.” I purse my lips. “Happy?”
He sets down the salt canister, turns to face me, and rests a hand on my shoulder until I stop rolling silverware and look at him. I half expect to see pity when I meet his basil-green eyes. Instead, I see the complete opposite. Tenderness. Empathy. Support.
“Didn’t mean to upset you, K.” After a quick squeeze, he drops his hand from my shoulder and shrugs. “Just like seeing my friends happy is all.”
Silence settles between us as we resume our menial tasks. I clear dishes from tables, offer to pack leftovers, and deliver tabs to patrons.
“Always a good day when I see you,” Bill, one of our regulars, says when I collect his payment. “No change, beautiful.”
I rest a hand on his arm and, in return, he gifts me his smile. “You’re a sweetheart, Bill.”
Bill lays a hand over mine, his thumb slowly stroking my skin as he licks his lips. “Only for you.”
I swallow and step out of his hold, a halfhearted smile on my face. “Enjoy your day.” With a wave, I walk away.
Poke the Yolk slowly clears out, most promising to see us tomorrow. Kenzie, a part-time server, locks the front door and flips the sign from open to closed for the day. Oliver continues to refill condiment jars while I roll silverware and Kenzie wipes down tables. Finished, I gather a stack of paper placemats and lay them on tables, followed by rolled silverware and mugs. Monotonous as the work is, it gives me time to clear my head after a busy shift.
“I’m headed out,” Kenzie says. “Unless you need something else.”
