Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 102361 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102361 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Then I decide to grab dinner at Kay’s Diner by myself.
After a short drive across town, I park my truck and walk inside, wave at the server, and take a seat at the bar.
Kay’s is an old-fashioned 1950s-style diner. The booths and seats are covered in red vinyl, the floors are black-and-white tile, and old rock-and-roll paraphernalia hangs all over the walls. The jukebox in the corner is pumping out an old Fleetwood Mac tune.
It’s a great spot.
“Hey, there,” Shirley, one of the servers, says. “Your usual?”
“Please.”
I don’t have to see the menu. I get the same thing every time. Mushroom burger with fries and a Coke.
“You must be a regular.”
I turn to my left and find a pretty little redhead smiling up at me. She’s a tiny thing with deep dimples in her cheeks and bright blue eyes.
She’s beautiful.
And not at all what I want.
“Might be,” I reply.
“I’m Layla,” she says.
I just nod and pull my phone out of my pocket to check my email.
“What’s your name?” she asks, not giving up.
“Why do you want to know?” I set the phone down and turn back to her.
“I’m obviously really bad at this, but I think you’re handsome, and I thought I’d make conversation. That’s all.” She lifts a shoulder and tucks her hair behind her ear, obviously flirting with me.
“Do you live here?” I ask her.
“No.” She shakes her head and smiles again. “I’m visiting from back East. I came to see an old college roommate, but she’s busy.”
“Do I know the roommate?”
She tips her head to the side. “Probably not. I don’t know, actually. Margie Smith?”
I don’t know her.
Shaking my head, I take a sip of the cola that was just set in front of me. “Never heard of her.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“For the purposes of this conversation?” I tilt my head back and forth. “It’s probably good.”
“Would you still be talking to me if I told you I lived here?”
“No, ma’am. It’s nothing personal.”
That makes her laugh, and it’s the kind of laugh that grates on my nerves.
“At least you’re honest. I’m staying—”
“No.” I shake my head, and her face loses the smile. “I’m sure you’re nice and probably a great fuck. But I’m not interested.”
“Gay?”
I snort, and Shirley sets my basket of food in front of me, then gives me a wink.
“Not that it matters, but no.”
“Married? I don’t see a ring.”
“Sometimes the answer’s just no, Layla.”
“Huh.” Her shoulders slump. “I’m not used to that.”
I’m sure you’re not, sweetheart.
I have to respect her for not changing seats. She also doesn’t try to drag me into any other conversations, and we eat side by side in a comfortable silence. She gets up to leave, but pauses.
“Do you want my number, just in case you change your mind?”
Jesus.
“I won’t change my mind. Safe travels, Layla.”
She nods and then walks away. Shirley crosses over to hand me my bill.
“You’re just breaking hearts all over town, Brooks.”
“I didn’t break her heart. That’s not what she was interested in.”
Shirley laughs and takes my credit card.
And now, I really want a glimpse of my wildfire.
Which is stupid as fuck.
Because she’s not mine, and I can’t have her, and seeing her, even for a second, is not healthy.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t want it.
So to torture myself after dinner, I drive back into downtown and park in front of Sage & Citrus. I can admit, it’s a cute place. It’s classy. It looks like something from one of those farmhouse home improvement shows.
And moving back and forth behind the long counter at the back is Juliet.
She’s wearing a white T-shirt with a red apron over it. Her blond curls are teased up into a bun, and she has little ringlets that have sprung free that hang around her face.
I want to touch them. My fingertips rub against my thumb involuntarily because all I can think about is touching that soft hair.
Does she still smell like jasmine? Or has she changed her shampoo?
Is anything still the same?
Jules laughs at something someone says, and it makes my heart physically ache. Rubbing my hand over my chest, I start the truck and pull out of the parking spot.
I need to stop this shit. Go back to avoiding her.
Stay away from her.
Because now it’ll be weeks before I’ll feel like I can breathe again.
Chapter Three
JULIET
“Six hundred dollars?” I stare at the asshole across from me and wish with all my might that I were a violent woman.
Because I’d slap his smug, condescending face.
“Yep,” he says and leans his greasy hands on his counter. “Part was a hundred and twenty, and the rest is labor. Had to practically take the engine out to get to it. I know, it’s tough.”
He shakes his head and presses his lips together, as if he’s being sympathetic, but I see the gleam in his eye. He’s fucking mocking me.