Page 3 of Pillow Talk

Chapter 2

Alexa

“Vince, I’m gonna wipe down the tables and then take a break,” Calling over my shoulder, I make my way down the row of booths to the back to start wiping down the cracked Formica. I really need to study for my Economics final. My final, final.

"Make it quick." He teases gruffly. "Quite the crowd tonight." He's a burly man, whose bark is way worse than his bite. He’s really a big softy, but I’ll never tell him that.

My eyes wander around the empty diner – black and white checkered floors in need of waxing, red vinyl booths that have seen better days and an antique jukebox that sits at one end like the crown jewel. It's like being transported back in time, but in a good way, like coming home. I've worked here two years, and they've been good to me.

From booth to booth, I find the gentle rhythm of scrubbing away the invisible spots slightly therapeutic. My mind drifts to my fight with Kami, and my mood grows somber because I'm out of ideas when it comes to helping her. Sometimes people have to learn to help themselves. But I can't give up on her. She's all I have. Doubts about my marketing final surface, piling on my melancholy mood, but I quickly squash them out. The worn, soapy rag grows cold in my hand.

Stretching, I take in the aging prints framed on the wall that show what the place used to be like, full of life. Now, most nights, aside from a few regulars, it’s just Vince and me, and on the weekends, Dottie. The hustle and bustle that once was, is no more. Such a shame.

The clank and jingling of the metal bells on the glass door pulls me from my daydream. Lifting my gaze, I find the most gorgeous specimen of man I have ever encountered, standing in the doorway of the diner.

My eyes do a quick sweep of his body before locking with his warm chocolate eyes. He has broad shoulders, a tapered waist and is wearing a suit that looks like it was cut just for him. Not the typical type we get around here, other than the slightly wrinkled state of the charcoal fabric, he screams wealth. His hair, a mix of blond and brown, is cut close on the sides and longer on the top. Very trendy, very sexy. Where did that come from?

The shock must register on my face because he eyes me curiously. It’s not that I’m shocked that a customer wondered in, in the middle of the night. That happens from time to time. It’s just that when I saw him, it was like my breath was stolen. And not in a poetic way, but in an awkward, I can't control my body's response kind of way.

We remain locked in this odd stare down, of sorts, until a slight shift of his head breaks the trance.

“Sit anywhere you like,” a booming voice shouts across the empty diner, echoing off the walls.

The man nods and moves toward the opposite end of the room. And, I’m still frozen in place like a damn fool. Get it together, Alexa.

“Right, sit anywhere you like.” I repeat Vince's words, throwing a smile at the mysterious stranger as I grab an empty coffee cup.

He keeps his head down as I approach, seeming very preoccupied. Either that, or maybe he’s just really shy. Maybe he’s undercover. Or maybe he’s meeting his secret lover.

My mind runs wild with possibilities, a side effect of my bibliophile tendencies.

“Good evening, -err morning I guess you could say.” The words stumble out of my mouth, and his only response is a tight smile.

“If you want coffee, I’ll just put on a fresh pot,” I offer as I place a menu and the mug in front of him.

“That’d be great, thanks,” he says quietly, looking over the menu as I run to start the coffee.

Mock gasp! He does speak. And his voice is hot!

“Can I get your order started?” I ask, returning to the table. I reach into my apron, grasping for my pad so I don’t have to tear my eyes away from him, taking the opportunity to study him as he looks over the menu. It's not like I'm blind or a nun, but I'm not usually so affected by a pretty face. Or body.

“Specials are on the board, in case you’re interested.” I point to the chalk board over my shoulder. He lifts his gaze and follows to where I’ve motioned behind the counter.

“How's the pie? You have any peach?” He nods to the famous pie sign next to the pie cooler, and I inwardly cringe.

“Uhhh, well.” Risking a glance over my shoulder to make sure Vince is occupied, I lean in, lowering my voice. “Just between you and me, no one comes here for the pie.” He looks genuinely confused by my confession and the fact that it conflicts with the sign. False advertisement at its best, Marketing 101.

“The cook's wife makes the pies,” I try to explain. “The only thing that makes them famous is that sign,” I add with a wink, suddenly wishing I could take it back because a wink seems a little flirty. I hope he realizes it was merely to let him in on a secret, not a come on. I'm not one of those fluttering eyelash, bubble gum popping waitresses who talks like she was raised in the south while never having actually left the state of California.

“Ah, I see. Thanks for the heads up. What do you recommend then?” he asks, still looking back up to the board, his menu long since forgotten.

“Well, that depends; is this breakfast or dinner?” I ask, hoping it's not too obvious that I'm curious about more than just his order.

“Does it really matter?” he retorts, his expression remaining impassive and I can’t tell if he’s joking or being rude.

“Well, for me, actually no. Because I love breakfast food, regardless of the time of day.” It’s now my personal mission to cheer him up. I’m not sure why or what it is about him, but he has this look like someone just kicked his puppy.

Then my over-caffeinated brain starts envisioning him surrounded by adorable puppies. Before I start drooling on myself, I realize he’s talking. So I do that smile and nod thing I do when people are talking and I accidentally zone out.