Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 43375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 217(@200wpm)___ 174(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 217(@200wpm)___ 174(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)
Half the city followed the Nighthawks, but most New Yorkers respected personal space as long as you respected their time. Tourists were a crapshoot in that arena, but it seemed luck was on my side today.
The object of my attention hustled back toward the counter, apron strings fluttering, hips swaying just enough to draw the eye and punch the breath from my lungs.
Her section wrapped around toward me. I watched her carry drinks, fetch ranch, and kneel beside a kid to cut a grilled cheese sandwich into quarters. She had a soft voice, a quick smile, and a posture made for grace despite the exhaustion smudging those little shadows. And she moved like she’d grown up juggling chaos, like someone who learned early to keep plates spinning because dropping one wasn’t an option.
I claimed the first empty booth in her area, sat on the inside so she’d have to step close to reach me, and forced my breathing under control. Pads-off Micah was calm. Collected. Not the same guy who dripped adrenaline onto the turf every Sunday. I was the guy Raiden trusted to watch the deli’s margins.
I reminded myself of all that when she turned toward my booth with her tray balanced high, and a spark jumped the gap between us. My pulse jackhammered because she was looking at me, and I hoped I was the only one who could hear the pounding. Her steps slowed half a beat, and recognition flickered behind those hazel eyes. Instead of launching into gush-mode the way most people did, she gave a polite nod and finished dropping checks. Professional. Guarded. And all the more interesting.
She slid the tray onto an empty table, straightened, and headed over with a pad in hand. Up close, she was…hell, I had no words.
Soft freckles across her nose and high cheekbones, collarbones delicate as blown glass, and her apron pulled snugly over small but perfect breasts that rose and fell a touch too fast. Nerves or exertion, I couldn’t tell.
“Afternoon.” She pulled a pen from behind her ear. Her voice was low, throaty, roughened at the edges from too many shouted orders and not enough water. “Welcome to The Tight Line. I’m Rylin. What can I get you?”
Rylin. The name landed like a punch under my sternum. I repeated it in my head, tasting how it might feel sliding across my tongue in the dark. Then I forced air out of my lungs.
“Micah,” I answered even though she obviously knew. “Good to meet you.”
Her smile twitched, polite but cautious. “Likewise. You look like a man who could demolish an entire menu. Want the Shaffer Stack?”
I grinned. “Hell no. I’m starving, not suicidal. I can’t eat shit like that until the season is over.”
I didn’t need to see the menu to know what she was referring to, not just because Raiden and I had created it, but because I had an eidetic memory. That particular sandwich was two pounds of thick-cut turkey, maple-glazed bacon, sharp cheddar, arugula, and honey Dijon aioli on toasted sourdough. Named after my best friend and co-owner. He’d also chosen the tag line, too—Big. Balanced. Dangerous in the red zone.
Not that I had any room to judge since I’d used The linebacker of melts. Heavy-hitting and unforgettable for Micah’s Monster Melt.
“Give me The Tight End.”
Grilled chicken, smoked gouda, crispy pancetta, roasted red peppers, and basil pesto on ciabatta. Lean. Solid. Built for speed.
She jotted notes with quick strokes and looked at me from under lashes darker than her hair. “Anything to drink?”
“A gallon of iced tea if you’ve got it.” I smiled crookedly so she’d know it was half joke, half truth. “Practice was brutal.”
Her lips quirked. This close, I could see how thin she really was under the apron—lean muscle wrapped around a frame that looked like it’d skipped more meals than it should. I felt heat crawl beneath my sternum, half anger at whatever situation wore her down, the other part a desperate need to fix it.
“I’ll bring you a pitcher.” Her voice softened by a degree. “Kitchen’ll be quick.”
She turned to go, and I heard myself speak before the thought cleared. “Rylin?”
Her ponytail swung as she looked back at me. The smile she gave me punched like a late hit. Sun breaking through tired clouds, fleeting but bright. “Yep?”
“You’re new?”
“Started last week.” Her pen tapped against the ticket pad with an unconscious rhythm, as if she were full of nervous energy. But her face remained locked in a polite expression. “Trying not to drown in sandwich lore.”
“Seems like you’ve got it handled.” The words felt inadequate for how hard she was working, but they earned me a real smile, quick and bright enough to light the whole fucking city.
My ribs went soft. Shit.
She pivoted, headed for the pass-through, and those cheap black uniform pants couldn’t hide a damn thing. The sway of her hips hit me like film-study slo-mo. I shifted on the vinyl seat to make sure the growing pressure behind my zipper stayed hidden. For fuck’s sake, Daughtry, get it together.