Friday night at the Tierney Bay Diner started off well for Lily McKee.
The sweet red-haired family from the other night was back, and they’d asked for Lily to wait on them again. That had to be good, right? That was the first tangible sign that someone thought she was doing a good job, and doing a good job meant tips, and tips meant—
Well, tips meant less time till she had enough money to start—or, well, restart—her life. Her real life.
“You were so helpful the other night,” said the mom, whose hair was fine and floaty. She had two beautiful and well-mannered redheaded children, a girl and a boy, who were coloring in their menus with fierce concentration. “The way you steered us.”
She meant how Lily had guided them away from that night’s special, a seafood stew. Markos, Lily’s boss, had told her to push the stew, but she’d been in too many kitchens to let such an adorable family eat three-day-old seafood, no matter how much she valued her job. So she’d said, brightly, “I had the meatloaf for my dinner. It was made fresh this afternoon and it’s delicious!”
Code for: That seafood stew is going to ruin your night.
“What else is good tonight?” the dad asked now. His hair wasn’t nearly as fine or as flaming as his wife’s, more like a coppery cap.
Unfortunately, nothing much at the Tierney Bay Diner was good tonight, or any night. Everything was bland, overcooked, or derived from canned cream-of-something. One of the other waitresses had told Lily that Markos had inherited the diner from his father, and that little had changed since the late 1960s. That made perfect sense, given the diner’s lodge decor—wood paneling, framed wildlife posters with curling edges, and the occasional antique gun or pair of antlers. According to the waitress, Markos had inherited the diner’s recipes, too, all circa 1950.
This was the part of Lily’s job that broke her heart. She loved food, and it saddened her that the diner’s food was so bad. If someone would just let her cook, give her a week in the kitchen, she could make it so much better.
But Markos didn’t want or need short-order cooks. He’d made that abundantly clear when she’d suggested she could help out behind the counter as well as in front of it. He needed a waitress. And Lily needed a job. She’d canvassed up and down the Oregon coast, ranging as far from her sister’s house as she thought she could commute, but this was the only full-time restaurant job she’d found.
“Tonight’s special is turkey dinner,” Lily told her table.
The turkey dinner was safe enough: sliced deli turkey, a small scoop of powdered mashed potatoes, canned cranberries, and gravy made from cream of chicken soup, all served on white bread. Nothing much to go wrong there, if nothing to celebrate, either.
If the diner had been hers, turkey dinner would have been fresh-roasted turkey, homemade gravy, a warm, freshly buttered biscuit, apple-and-bacon stuffing, local cranberry preserves, and a heap of hot, creamy garlic mashed potatoes. Her mouth watered at the thought. Her hands felt itchy with her desire to overhaul Markos’s dad’s Thanksgiving feast. And pretty much everything else about the diner, too—it was a shame that a diner in a seaside town hadn’t nodded at a beach theme, or at least gone after a sunshiny feel. Markos’s diner was cozy at night, but cavelike and stifling when the sun was up.
But the diner wasn’t hers, and she had to keep her eyes on the prize. If she kept saving at her current rate, she’d have enough money to move back to Chicago, where most of her culinary school friends now lived. She’d get a job in a real restaurant, actually cooking. And eventually, someday, she’d have the know-how and the name recognition to start her own place. It would happen, despite her mistakes.
“And the meatloaf?”
“If you liked the meatloaf, you’ll love our spaghetti and meatballs tonight.” There were only so many ways to warn people away from a meal without turning them off a restaurant completely, and Lily was mastering all of them.
“I want that,” said the freckled, redheaded children simultaneously.
“Two turkey dinners and two spaghetti and meatballs,” the mom said, smiling at Lily.
“Easy enough! Thanks, guys!”
Lily turned toward the counter, a wood and stone monstrosity built to look like a hunting lodge’s fireplace, just in time to see the diner’s front door open. She had only a general impression of the figure pushing through it, but that was enough.
Him. Her mystery man.
Her body woke up. Pulse, breath, that surge of adrenaline in her veins. Maybe, if she were willing to admit it, other body parts were taking notice, too.
A strange push-pull. Half of her wished he’d find some other place to hang out, while the other half constantly monitored that back booth, noting his absence or celebrating his presence. When he wasn’t there, she wished he were, and when he was, she wished he’d leave and take the distraction with him. So she could just do this job, do it well, and get on with things.
But she couldn’t deny that he cut through the twitchy boredom of waiting tables, like a wire through wet clay.
She forced herself to focus on the tasks at hand, hanging the order for the kitchen and delivering the drinks for Booth 12, though she knew from past experience that she couldn’t pretend he wasn’t there. Even when she couldn’t see him, she registered him—how much space he took up in the diner, how he moved through the restaurant to his seat, his walk as assured as a swagger but so much more self-contained. Unhurried. Unapologetic.
His expression was grim—no smile for the hostess, only his cool pale-blue eyes absorbing everything, wary and watchful. In his jaw, she saw the knot of muscle that told her he never let his guard down.
At first she’d guessed he was a cop, maybe, or ex-army. He had that look.
He sat, as always, in the corner, his back angled so there were two walls behind him. He drew the blind—another habit of his—even though the sun was weak. He almost always sat alone, though once he’d had dinner with a man Lily knew, a grizzled, bearded grandfatherly man who was one of her brother-in-law’s fishing friends. That was a small town for you—if you didn’t know someone, you at least knew someone who knew him.
She’d been trying not to let herself wonder about him, about what it would be like to be with him, whether he could—and would—give her what she wanted and needed, because she was supposed to have shut down that whole line of thinking. But it wasn’t working so well. Her mind kept going there, even as she delivered the drinks to Booth 12 and took their orders. They made it easy for her—turkey dinners and burgers all around.
When she had a moment to peek again, he was drinking coffee, which was all he ever drank, and reading an impressively large book. And still, his thickly corded arms, the span of his shoulders, dwarfed the book and, somehow, the whole booth. Her gaze slipped over the tattoos that peeked out of the neck of his T-shirt. Black and flesh, geometric, triangles and diamonds—almost tribal-looking. His arms were tattooed, too—she’d seen enough to know that one arm was densely and elaborately drawn with evergreen forest.
He glanced up and caught her eye, quickly looked away.
Her heart pounded, as it always did when she caught him looking. A little thrill of speculation chased its tail in the pit of her gut.
I bet he’d be rough . . .
She shut down that thought, ducking behind the counter to scoop up the table settings she needed. When she stood, she almost bumped heads with her boss, Markos.
“I need you to grill.”
He thrust an apron and a hairnet into her arms. “Blake just called and said he’s got some kinda family emergency. Might be here in half an hour, might take him three hours. I can’t find anyone to take over on such short notice. So you’re it. You said you can cook. Prove it.”
She’d been waiting for this opportunity for weeks. She missed cooking so bad it was an ache, like homesickness. She longed for the colors, textures, smells, and flavors, the cadences of chopping and stirring, whipping and blending. She craved the buzz of sudden inspiration and the bliss on people’s faces when she fed them.
But Markos’s words weren’t much of an invitation—more like a setup for failure. The other short-order cooks had written her off because she was young and female, and because they knew she’d gone to cooking school. She was going to get the shit hazed out of her back there.
Trial by fire. Well, she’d learned well enough in school how to endure that. She sure as hell wasn’t going to let a little harassment get between her and a chance to cook. She wasn’t going to let anything get between her and a chance to get herself back on her chosen path.
Irresistible impulse made her glance up again at the man sitting at the far booth. He leaned against the wall, the arm that held the book extended full-length before him. The forest tattoo was gray-green over the knot of muscle just below his elbow. He brushed a hand over his spiky blond hair, and for a moment, the lines in his forehead eased. Then they settled in again.
Markos jabbed her in the arm. “I got Gina coming in to take over your tables. Don’t fuck this up and maybe I’ll let you do it again someday.”
She followed him behind the counter.
“No.” That was Hadley, one of the short-order cooks. “I don’t want her in my kitchen.”
“It’s not your fucking kitchen, Hadley. And it’s only for a couple of hours, till Blake can get here. Would you rather be in the weeds?”
Hadley flipped four burgers in rapid succession with his left hand and shook a pan of caramelizing onions with his right. “Do I look like I’m in the fucking weeds?”
“Dinner rush is just starting. You will be in ten minutes. Look, I’m not giving you a choice.”
“Of course you’re fucking not.”
The men glared at each other, then turned to her.
Lily knew better than to look like she was waiting for an invitation. She grabbed an order ticket and got to work.
Of course it was the ticket for Booth 9. Her mystery man. He’d ordered a burger.
She let herself wonder, just a little. If he’d do it. If he’d pin her, hold her, boss her, own her. Wondering wasn’t doing. There was no harm in wondering.
She’d told herself that after what had happened with Fallon, she needed to give herself space. She’d told herself: No men in Tierney Bay. Do the job, make the money, get out.
The anger coiled now. The sense of betrayal.
Do the job, make the money, get out.
And yet, every time her mystery man came in here and she took in his size, the hewn-wood solidity of him, the ripple and surge of what he’d built under the surface of his skin like a barely contained threat, she wanted to rewrite the rules. And that was before he turned that cool blue gaze on her, stripped her to the skin and then barer still, and dared her something she didn’t have a name for.
She’d promised herself. And in her head, she’d promised her mother and her sister, who had given up so much for her.
And her father, who had given up everything.
So that meant she could wonder, but that was all.
But it wouldn’t be breaking the rules to cook for him. To grill him a burger and watch him eat it. She’d seen him eat a few times, like he was ravenous and barely restrained, but savoring every last nuance. Watching him eat would be only a consolation prize, but it would be a damn good one.
Unfortunately, she’d had a few of Tierney Bay Diner’s hamburgers, and they were nothing to write home about. That would dampen the fun of feeding him, for sure.
It would take her ten seconds, no more, to fix that.
A few chopped onions, minced garlic and parsley, Worcestershire sauce.
She dared a glance, and there he was. Icy-lake eyes, full lips, the slashes of cheek and jaw bone, a day’s stubble. Not reading. Watching her.
They’d done this too many times for her to pretend they weren’t doing it. She looked right back at him, held his gaze, and heat flared in her, like the shimmer of air over the grill.
She oiled the grill and formed the patty, the sound of her hands loud as a slap in her mind but drowned by sizzle and the clang of metal and the god-awful eighties XM station playing on infinite loop.
In a few seconds she was flipping her own burgers with her left hand and clearing space for sausages with her right.
She brushed cooking oil on the grill—but someone had substituted lemon juice in her oil bottle and the whole thing caramelized in an instant.
Behind her, Hadley snickered.
Screw him. She scraped the grill clean, time wasted, and started over.
On his next pass, he knocked her elbow when she was salting, and she seared his forearm with a metal spatula she’d been heating on the grill for just that purpose.
He jumped a foot and his jaw tightened, but he half-grinned, too. He knew the score. It was every man for himself in the kitchen. Every woman, too.
She’d be poised for his next attack, but somehow, some way, she’d prove herself in here. This was how you did it.
Meantime, she wouldn’t let him distract her. Wouldn’t let him break her rhythm. The smack of patties on her latex palms, the swish of spatula against grill surface, the dance she was part of now as her brain tracked tickets and entrees, ingredients and sub-assemblies. What needed to be started and what needed to be finished.
Booth 9’s burger was up, and she watched it get delivered. He took a bite, then looked up from the burger and met her eyes. It was there: gratitude and worship, hot and dark as sex. Like no one had ever really fed him before.
She loved that. She couldn’t help her smile.
Someone stopped by his table, breaking her line of sight. Markos. He’d been moving around the diner, stopping to say hello to regular customers and to check on people to see if they were enjoying their meals. Markos and her mystery man began having an animated conversation, pointing to the burger. Removing the bun.
Shit.
A cold hand fisted in her stomach.
Markos left Booth 9 and headed straight for her. “See me in the storeroom.” Markos’s thick-featured face was angry, his voice low and mean. “Hadley, watch her station.”
She followed Markos into the storeroom.
“You messed with my food.”
“I—I—”
“We don’t put fucking onions and parsley in the hamburgers. Or anything fucking else.”
The real rage in his voice surprised her, set her back on her heels despite herself. “I was— Did he not like it?”
Because she knew he had. She’d seen him finish the last bite a moment ago and lick his fingers, which had sent a shiver of lust up her spine.
“That’s not the fucking point. You don’t mess with my food. You don’t try something new. I tell you what to cook, you cook it. Except you don’t, because it’ll be a frigid day in hell before I let you back in this kitchen. Get outta here. Go do what I hired you to do.”
He held out his hand and she shed her apron and hairnet and returned them to him.
She went back to the floor. Tears stung behind her eyes, but she ordered them back. Be tough. Show no weakness.
Or as one of her favorite teachers—a woman—had once said, Pull on your big-girl panties and turn up the heat.
The other two waitresses had temporarily divvied up Lily’s tables between them, but Gina hadn’t come in yet, so Lily retook her tables. She made the rounds, getting back on track with her customers. She brought the redheaded family desserts, refilled water glasses, and took a few more orders. Then she grabbed the coffeepot and headed back to 9.
Getting near him felt like being drawn into some planet’s orbit.
His eyes scraped over her as she poured his coffee. “You cooked this.” He tilted his head at his now empty plate.
She nodded.
“Best burger I’ve had here. By a mile.”
“Thanks.” She couldn’t keep the pleasure off her face.
She waited for him to say something else, but he didn’t, only kept those blue eyes on her. His gaze should have felt cool where it touched her face, but it felt hot instead, and it sent heat sloshing through her. She looked down. The book he’d been reading was on the table. A textbook, with a stack of flags and a highlighter beside it. Abernathy’s Law in the United States.
She rearranged her notions of him around that. Maybe a cop, but a law student, too. Huh. “Light reading?”
He grinned.
“You done?” she asked.
“I’ll take a slice of chocolate cake.”
She went back for the cake, cutting an extra-thick piece for him. God, the need to feed him was intense. And all mixed up with her other cravings.
Just because he’s big doesn’t mean he’s rough. Doesn’t mean he likes it rough. And it doesn’t matter, because that’s not what you’re here to do.
But the frustration and disappointment of failing at her chance in the kitchen got all wrapped up with her other feelings. The elation she’d experienced when her ex-boyfriend, Fallon, had bound her—the ropes, the tape, the surge of power that powerlessness had given her. The way she’d struggled, the way restraint had poured pleasure into her body.
How Fallon had turned away from it, in distaste and disgust.
How willing she’d been to renounce her newfound self, her newfound joy, for what she thought was love. For the trappings that came with love—the apartment she shared with him, the mentoring he’d given freely, the job he could offer her. How deep she’d buried her real self so she could be what he needed her to be and so she could have the life he was offering her.
And most of all, the true shame and hurt—of losing it all, anyway, to lies.
All of that, that tight knot of emotion, needed an outlet. It wanted to work itself raw, shake itself off. It wanted to drown itself.
It wanted this man, rational or not. It wanted to unbury itself for him. She wanted to unbury herself for him.
Instead, she set the cake down before him.
“Did you get in trouble with the owner? I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. I just wanted him to know you did good.”
She wanted to shrug it off, but instead was horrified to discover that the tears she’d pushed back were threatening to fall. “It was a rookie mistake,” she said, steadying her voice. “I should have known better. You never mess with the recipes. You don’t question the chef. Ever.”
She’d known, but she’d wanted too desperately to cook this man something he’d love. Her desire to feed him would do her in. She knew it, now, already.
He was shaking his head, the muscles flowing in his thick—and yet somehow finely built—neck. The skin under his tattoo was as smooth as satin, and she realized she was fantasizing about licking it. Biting it.
He rubbed a thumb back and forth over the laminate table, as if cleaning up a spot of something that had spilled. “Rumor is he’s crazy. Should have retired years ago, but has some price in mind and won’t settle for less, even though the place needs a ton of work. Meanwhile, he won’t change anything from his dad’s day—not the recipes, the decor, nothing. It’s not you, kiddo. It’s him.”
The kiddo killed her. Slew her dead, right then. It should have felt demeaning, condescending, but it had the same effect on her the rest of him did. Made her want to be a small thing he tossed around, the way his sandpaper voice tossed off that word. Kiddo.
She needed to walk away from this craving, from this stranger who didn’t feel like a stranger. As if maybe all those locked gazes, the fact of his being there dependably week after week, had built a slow, strange, invisible trust.
She was here in Tierney Bay, love life ruined, career in suspended animation, self-regard shredded, having fled as far as she could from her mistakes, and she had vowed not to make them again. She had vowed not to let anything get between her and rebuilding her life. Because it wasn’t, couldn’t possibly be, worth it.
But in the end, there were two parts of her. There was the part that wanted to rebuild her life.
And there was the part that just wanted to live.
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