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“Thanks,” I offer and pop the handle to the door. It grinds open as I step out. We’ve managed to grab the only parking space. Old model trucks, cars I know my dad would have loved to fix up, and motorcycles line every inch of the parking lot a pumpkin or hay bale isn’t occupying.
I guess when it’s the only place to get food you don’t have to cook, you’re damn guaranteed a good turnout.
“Is there a place where I can offload my bike?” I follow Tommy with a glance back over my shoulder at my Harley.
“She’ll wait, son. The pie won’t. Trust me. Get a move on, Marine.” Tommy waves his hand for me to follow before disappearing inside.
I cock a smile at knowing my father’s one-time friend served his country, too.
I push the diner door open as a gust of wind barrels down off the mountains, pushing loose straw and fallen leaves in behind me.
I take in a lungful of air. Pumpkin hits me first followed by the unique scent of mountain air this far north and something so delicate I have to pull in another breath to appreciate it fully.
Her.
Overhead a witch's cackle greets me. Inside the diner, all conversation stops. Heads turn my way long enough to get a look at the oddball before turning back to steaming mugs of coffee.
I freeze, hand on the door, standing halfway inside. If I thought the Pumpkin King vomited all over the outside of this place, it has nothing on what's going on inside.
Faux web clings to every corner with tiny spiders trapped in the middle. Booths already covered in black leather blend right in with the carved pumpkins dotting almost every available space. Jars of candy corn and cinnamon sticks cover the remaining counterspace with sparkly orange and black ribbons tied off around the rims. There’s hardly enough room for a man to place a cup of coffee on.
“Shut the door!” a female calls out.
I scan the patrons, trying to place it, but all I see are hunters, farmers and truckers on their way through. Every last one of them male.
I jerk the door closed, and a collective sigh of relief settles across the men as conversation kicks back up. The main word on their lips is something to do about pie, which has my stomach growling.
Booths really aren’t my style so I glance toward the diner’s counter, searching for an empty seat.
“Theo, you best move over and show some of those manners your mama taught you,” the same female calls, still sight unseen from the kitchen, hidden by the narrow service window.
A man in green overalls and orange plaid—a running theme tonight—slides over, leaving me a stool empty. I've been away for long enough that not many recognize the man I’ve grown into so I don’t take it personal when my former neighbor pulls his hunter green hat down over his eyes and mutters something I can’t make out.
Presumed newcomers aren’t always welcomed in a town this small.
Judging from the emptiness of the town and the fullness of the diner, the mechanic I’m looking for must be in here.
I lower my heavy frame onto the stool nearest the kitchen doors and grind my teeth when the wood creaks under my weight. This seating wasn’t exactly built for my muscular, six-foot-four frame but I make do.
“Fresh pie! Coming through! I have apple and pumpkin tonight!” A shapely feminine ass bumps the swinging doors open, but instead of seeing a sweet face, I’m greeted by two large trays laden with pies held up in both hands.
Not a single male moves to help the woman.
Assholes.
“Let me help.” I stand, taking a tray off her hands.
Dark brown hair, a heart-shaped face and beautiful violet eyes stare up at me, outrage shining up at me from their depths.
Well shit.
“Don’t you dare try and sneak off with my pie,” she grounds out, snatching the try back.
Her generous breasts are squeezed into a white frilly thing that feeds into a bigger white frilly thing reminding me of Cinderella before the stroke of midnight. There’s so much compression on the top half I can’t help but take in the delicious way her breasts are pushed up like treats to savor.
I have an overwhelming urge to take the trays from the sassy-mouthed diner owner and sweep her into my arms for a long overdue hug. And then plant one on her. Not exactly my MO but nothing about being here is normal. Only thing keeping my hands to myself is the scowl of disapproval plastered on her pretty face. Like she can read my mind.
“Kandy.”
