Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 119935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 600(@200wpm)___ 480(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 600(@200wpm)___ 480(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
Despite the upbeat ‘Billie Jean,’ by Michael Jackson playing at a higher volume than usual, the dining area at Gus’s was not too busy at this time. Typically, Kim worked evenings but had picked up the morning shift that week in order to earn a little more money. Stacey, another waitress, was out sick. It was a win-win situation.
Kim scratched her scalp between two tightly bound cornrows that flowed down her back and looked at her reflection in a windowpane: Smooth brown skin with a reddish hue along the cheeks, almost jet-black eyes, and a natural shine along her broad forehead. She could also see that the snow was coming down hard. She’d barely made it in for the morning commute, having to drive at a snail’s pace. But with such little traffic, nobody honked at her, gave her the middle finger, or screamed at her to get a move on like they did in her birthplace of New York City.
A guy with straggly light brown hair waved her over, and she quickly refreshed his coffee, then returned to the back where the two morning cooks, Bernice and Icarus, drudged away, cooking greasy slices of pork bacon, sausage links, and runny eggs placed over warm toast. They laughed and chatted amongst themselves as if she wasn’t even there. She liked that. Finally invisible…
She’d picked up a waitressing job as soon as she relocated there four months prior. She had formal training as an actress and dancer, had performed in million-dollar Broadway plays and taken on a couple of notable roles in television shows. Arguing with someone who’d eaten all of their food then demanding a refund was definitely not the vocational dream she had aspired to, but she promised herself she’d get a job within two weeks of relocating to Alaska—any job, and then she’d take time to find something better later. At least, it paid the bills, helped her keep a low profile, and the locals were fairly friendly. Nevertheless, at times she felt like an anomaly. A black woman amongst a sea of wind-washed mountain men and pale-skinned women who knew how to chop wood and cheer for their favorite football teams all while baking pies, gossiping about local affairs, and sharing knitting tips.
“He’s a Russian asshole!” one of the customers yelled, then burst out laughing with his friends at the table.
A few more people had walked in, so business was picking up. Off she went to pour more coffee, ring up a couple credit cards to send the folks on their way, and slide on an award-winning smile with a shimmy of her hips. Flirting made the tips better, though she had absolutely no damn interest in making good on her saucy ways. Just another acting job. Another day, another dollar. The bell chimed, and she casually looked over to see who’d entered.
She stopped in her tracks.
The entire restaurant grew quiet as all eyes turned to a man who stood at least six foot five.
Damn, he’s big…
His shoulders were so broad, she imagined a grown woman could sit on the left, and another on the right with room to spare. Piercing dark gray eyes glinted as he moved slowly, but with purpose. Slipping off his fur-lined hood, he exposed wavy dark brown hair with a drop of silver at the temples, melding into a dense, groomed beard. He looked to be in his early to mid-forties, and as he removed his coat, it was quite obvious he was strong and hearty. Sitting down, he snatched up a menu from the table. She eyed him a bit longer; he was far too interesting to not take a second glance at, and everybody else in the room appeared to be of the same mind.
Is he famous around here? Why is everyone looking at him?
She grabbed the electronic tablet to take his order, placed it on the counter, then poured him a glass of water to take to him, too. As she did so, she shot another glance his way.
His features were sharp: a long-bridged nose, heavily hooded eyes that turned upward at the corners, thick brows, high cheekbones, and lines in his forehead that made him appear to be in heavy concentration. Mark Ronson and Bruno Mars crooned, ‘Uptown Funk,’ as she made her way over to him.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning,” he responded, not looking up at her.
The sound of just those two words alone made her insides shake. His voice was deeper than the bottom of a cannon.
“It’s a little past noon, but we’re still serving breakfast if you’re interested. What can I get for you?” She placed the glass down on the table, and he glanced at her hand wrapped around the tumbler. She slowly released her grip, and he followed her fingers with his eyes, up her arm, until they were staring eye to eye. His expression was so serious.