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“And you? Blaze Gracen,” I mirrored his tone. “What grinds your gears?”
He thought for a moment before answering, “Lack of punctuality.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Time is valuable?”
“To me, it is.” He gave me a look that said there was more to it than that.
The food arrived, and I forked a piece of the famous meatloaf, its steam curling up like a siren’s call. “If this tastes half as good as it smells, we’ve hit the jackpot.”
Blaze watched with an amused glint in his eye. “Prepare for your taste buds to throw a party.”
The first bite was a revelation—savory, rich, and comforting. “Holy cow, thisisgood,” I mumbled, mouth still full.
“Right?” Blaze savored his own bite, his approval was evident.
We fell into a peaceful rhythm of eating and light banter. It was nice, almost too nice, actually. Dangerous for my well-set boundaries.
The waitress sauntered back to our table, a twinkle in her eye that matched the garish lights strung up around the diner. She held a Santa hat in her hand, stretching it out toward Blaze with a grin that could melt the snow outside.
“Hey there, handsome,” she said, her voice syrupy sweet. “Mind giving us a Christmas smile for our wall? You’d look mighty fine in this here hat.”
I raised an eyebrow at Blaze, unable to suppress the smirk tugging at my lips. “Looks like someone’s made an impression.”
He shot me a sideways glance, a silent challenge in his blue-violet eyes. “Jealous?”
I scoffed. “Please, I’m just looking out for you. Wouldn’t want you to get swept off your feet by every charming waitress from here to San Francisco.”
He accepted the hat from her, his fingers brushing hers as he did so—a touch that lingered just a tad too long for mere politeness. “Only if I get to keep the hat,” he declared.
The waitress giggled, a sound as fluffy as the whipped cream on top of our pie. “All yours, sugar.”
With the grace of someone who’d done this before—perhaps during his college days—Blaze donned the Santa hat and posed beside our booth.
“Get in next to him, sugar,” the waitress said. She pulled out a Polaroid camera from behind the counter and snapped the picture.
As she shook the developing photo in her hand, Blaze looked at me with that Santa hat perched jauntily on his head and raised an eyebrow.
“So, what do you think? Does it bring out my eyes?”
I bit back laughter, focusing on my pie instead. “Absolutely,” I deadpanned. “Santa’s never looked so ruggedly handsome.”
The waitress slipped away after pinning the photo on their wall of fame—a collection of strangers bound by shared moments within these walls—and Blaze pulled off the hat, tossing it between us.
“Should I be worried about competition?” I asked.
He leaned back and gave me a look that was half-mock seriousness and half-amused indulgence. “Only if you think you can’t handle the heat?” he said smoothly.
“Trust me,” I shot back with a laugh. “The only heat I’m worried about is from that meatloaf.”
Blaze reached across the table for another fry, smirking beneath that ridiculous Santa hat still sitting between us like some holiday mascot gone rogue.
“I’ll have you know,” he said between bites, “I’ve never lost a meatloaf battle.”
I glanced at him from under my lashes. “That so? Because I’m pretty sure I’m about to witness your first defeat.”
He laughed, low and rich, and for a moment, everything else faded away—the snow outside, the miles we still had to go, even my well-guarded heart that wasn’t supposed to get involved.
A burly man at the counter grumbled into his phone loud enough for the entire diner to hear. “Yeah, storm’s barreling in faster than expected.”
