Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75342 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75342 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
"The fuck are you doing, mama?" a voice called, making me jump and turn to find Dean, the daytime cook, standing there with a cigarette dangling from his lips.
Dean reminded me a lot of his namesake, James Dean, only with darker hair. He had the same world-weary outlook, the same "I've seen some shit" eyes, though his were nearly black, not blue like the man his mother named him for.
"Ah, I have to do the trash," I said, waving down at my pile.
"With the way you're still favoring that side? I don't think so."
"It has to get done."
"The fuck is wrong with Don's arms?"
"He doesn't believe in lifting them to help anyone but himself," I said, uncharacteristically grumpy. And I was even more annoyed by the fact that I wasn't grumpy because I was tired, or because of my problems at home, but because some guy who'd kissed me once then never mentioned it again, hadn't shown up to see me.
To that, Dean let out a low chuckle. "Yeah, sounds about right. Tell you what. You leave the bags down by the side of the stairs from now on. I'll deal with them, yeah?" he asked. I opened my mouth to object, but he interrupted me. "This is where you say Yeah, Dean," he told me, smirking.
"Yeah, Dean," I repeated, giving him a grateful smile.
"That's why the gods gave me these big, burly muscles," he added, moving forward to take one of the bags.
Dean wasn't what I would call big and burly, at least not compared to someone like Malcolm, but he sure hurled the bags up over his head as though they were filled with feathers and with absolutely none of the grunting and cursing I had to do when doing the same task.
"I really appreciate it, Dean," I said when he finished.
He tossed his cigarette, crushing it under his heel. "Don't mention it. I don't know how you managed all this time without help," he said, moving past to disappear in the back door of the diner.
Malcolm was how I managed.
But one day passed.
Then another.
And no Malcolm.
Chapter Eleven
Malcolm
I'd chickened out.
That was what it all boiled down to.
I had every intention of heading into the diner the night after the kiss, telling her I had a feeling about her, and that if she had the same about me, maybe we would give it a go.
But then I'd walked in the door, I'd sat down, she'd come over to greet me, she'd taken my order.
And I fucking choked.
Hard.
Then I just kept choking for several nights in a row after.
I couldn't claim to be someone who struggled with insecurity. I'd been raised by parents who'd instilled self-worth in me. I'd never had an occasion to truly question it before.
Then again, I'd never needed to ask a woman if she would be interested in getting involved with me in more than a casual way.
After a few nights of not being able to find the right words, it felt too late to say them. At least in the diner setting.
I had, at least, managed to mention the baking thing to her. She'd looked taken aback, confused by the prospect of being able to do what she loved and make money from it again. I'd come in and caught her drawing mock-ups of potential business cards.
I'd been curious to see which one she'd actually settled on. Then I was going to go ahead, snap a picture of it when she wasn't looking, and get them printed up for her as a surprise.
The woman did so fucking much.
She deserved a little surprise from someone.
That had been my plan.
I was going to drop off the girls, head to the diner, and set my plan in motion the next day. I was hoping the local print shop could maybe even have some samples for me to bring to her the following night.
I'd been fucking excited about it, even.
I figured it might be a good segue into seeing her outside of work again, which might let me get my hands on her, which might give me the balls to tell her what I was thinking about the two of us.
Then I'd walked up to the door.
And there she'd been.
Leaning on the counter in front of a man she clearly knew well, having what seemed to be a very intimate conversation.
As if that wasn't a punch to the gut enough, she'd reached out, grabbed his arm, held on.
She never reached out to touch me. No matter how many nights I hung out with her.
That shit about snoozing and losing felt like a wrecking ball to all the hopes I'd allowed to grow about us.
I'd had my chance.
I'd blown it.
This guy was not blowing his.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I wasn't even sure what I was doing, or where I was going when I hopped into my truck and pulled off.