“He’s here.”
Amanda Sylvester looked up from the pear-and-goat-cheese puff pastry she was assembling and found Belle Ross, her head waitress, grinning at her from ear to ear.
“You know, in case you’ve decided to take a chance and actually speak to him.” Belle lifted a brow. “Just saying.”
“The lunch rush is in full swing. Shouldn’t you be waiting tables?” Amanda reached for a fresh rosemary sprig from the tiny garden she’d planted in the Grille’s sole kitchen window and placed it carefully on top of her creation. “Just saying.”
Belle leaned against the door frame. “It’s three o’clock. The lunch crowd disappeared almost an hour ago. But nice try, boss.”
“Oh.” Amanda had lost track of time—again—a common occurrence when she was experimenting with new recipes. Not that any of her new dishes ever actually turned up on the menu.
A girl could dream, though, right?
“He ordered a latte to go. I reminded him, yet again, that we’re not exactly a latte sort of establishment. We’re basically a diner, so our coffee offerings are pretty much limited to regular and decaf.” Belle shoved a paper cup at Amanda. “This is his coffee—regular, by the way. You’re giving it to him. I refuse to do it myself.”
Amanda stared at the cup. “Um.”
“Seriously, take it. This secret crush of yours is getting old.”
Amanda’s face went hot, and she defiantly plucked the coffee from Belle’s grasp. “It’s not a secret crush. I just think he’s mysterious, that’s all.”
Nor was he terrible to look at, but that was beside the point.
Mostly.
Amanda had lived in Spring Forest, North Carolina, her entire life. She’d worked at her family’s restaurant, Main Street Grille, since she was old enough to juggle more than one plate at a time. She loved it. She really did. But sometimes, it was all just a little predictable.
Which explained her fascination with the man who’d suddenly started showing up multiple times a day, looking as if he’d just walked out of the pages of GQ rather than any of the redbrick buildings in Spring Forest’s historic downtown district. Ryan Carter, the new owner and editor-in-chief of The Spring Forest Chronicle, wasn’t exactly what people might call personable, but he was certainly different. And attractive.
In a brooding sort of way.
Belle grinned. “Keep telling yourself that, boss.”
“You’re so fired,” Amanda whispered as she slipped past her, toward the dining room.
She was kidding, obviously. Belle was a ridiculously competent waitress, as well as one of Amanda’s oldest friends. But she was also delusional.
It wasn’t a crush. Amanda was a grown woman. A career woman. Twenty-nine-year-old ambitious adults didn’t have crushes.
But when she reached the counter and Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Grumpy glanced up from the iPhone in his hand, her stomach flipped in a way that could only be described as crush-tastic.
Get a grip on yourself. That’s not even a word.
She squared her shoulders, smiled and offered him the cup. “Your coffee.”
He took it. “Thank you very much.”
No smile. No indication that he thought she, herself, was crush-tastic, despite the very good hair day she was having. Nothing.
He gave her a distracted nod before turning to leave.
“You’re welcome,” she said to his back.
Rude much?
Amanda picked up the closest dish towel and scrubbed furiously at an invisible spot on the counter. She glanced back up for another glimpse of his disappearing form as he pushed through the door and strode purposefully down Main Street. He had a lovely back. Broad and strong, as if capable of shouldering the heaviest of burdens. And were those actual muscles moving beneath the elegant weave of his suit jacket? God, they were.
“How’d it go?” Belle asked.
“Disastrously.” Amanda scrubbed harder at the smooth Formica countertop. “I was confident and lovely. I smiled when I said ‘Here’s your coffee,’ and I might have even thrown in a flirty hair flip.”
“Then what happened?”
Amanda crossed her arms and sighed. “He said ‘Thank you very much,’ and left.”
“I see what you mean. Total disaster.” The corner of Belle’s mouth twitched into a grin. “Clearly the man is a monster.”
“You jest, but the fact that he didn’t smile says something about him, don’t you think?”
“Yes. It says he’s in a hurry. Or distracted. Or under-caffeinated, hence the coffee.” Belle gestured, Vanna White–style, at the coffeepot.
“Or he has no interest in me whatsoever, which is fine.” More than fine, really. She didn’t have time for a love interest. She didn’t even have time for a dog, for crying out loud. She just wanted to do her job, post her foodie pics to Instagram and admire Ryan Carter from afar. Was that really too much to ask? “He’s married, anyway. We know that much about him.”
“We do?” Belle peered out the window and squinted after him, as if she expected to spot a just-married sign taped to his back.
“Of course we do. He’s ordered two of the dinner specials to go almost every day this week. There’s a Mrs. Tall-Dark-and-Grumpy waiting for him at home.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Obviously.”
“The only thing obvious about any of this is that you’re a chicken. It’s like the tenth grade Sadie Hawkins dance all over again.”
“Don’t go there.” Sure, that humiliating experience had taken place approximately fourteen years ago, but Amanda still wasn’t over it. Not even close. “And I’m not a chicken. Need I remind you that I rode out a tornado all by myself last week?”
She’d been terrified out of her mind as she’d cowered in the bathroom of her tiny apartment above the Grille while the windows rattled and it sounded like a freight train was barreling through town. But she’d survived. On her own. The next morning, when she’d seen the storm damage, she felt kind of like Wonder Woman.
“Which reminds me.” She glanced at the vintage white-gold watch on her wrist, a keepsake from her grandmother. “I need to get out to the animal shelter. I promised Birdie and Bunny I’d walk some dogs today.”
Bernadette and Gwendolyn Whitaker,