Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
“Right behind you,” I say, dropping his plate down in front of him.
His shoulder muscles ripple under my hand as he moves to the side, trying to give me space. Then—and maybe I’m imagining it—I swear he leans back into my touch. My hand slips off him, the pads of my fingers barely skimming his shirt, and I notice the goose bumps that spread across the back of his neck. His subtle awareness of me is enough to drive me insane. What in the world is happening here? Why am I trying to play with fire?
Just then, the door between the dining room and the kitchen swings open, and Patrick strolls in. Like a bug to a flame, his attention falls on me almost instantaneously, and I quickly move away from Ben. He flicks his gaze from me down across the table filled with basketball players, and his eyes narrow with accusation.
Then he turns, picks up the first thing he sees, which happens to be an empty coffee pot, and calls my name.
“Raelynn, get over here and make more coffee. I don’t pay you to stand around.”
You don’t pay me anything, I want to say. Your daddy pays me.
Ben’s head jerks in Patrick’s direction as I slink around the table and hurry back behind the counter.
“Morning, Patrick,” I say, trying to ease his temper with kindness. Half the time it works, half the time it doesn’t.
“It’d be a better morning if you weren’t taking advantage of my dad’s goodwill. What were you doing over there? Flirting?”
I know better than to argue with him. It’s futile.
“Have you eaten yet?” I ask. “Want Cook to fix you up some breakfast?”
For a long moment, he stares at me as if he’s not sure he wants to drop his previous line of questioning. Then eventually, he nods and points to a vacant spot at the end of the counter where he plops down with a cup of coffee. I don’t miss the flask he tugs out of the back pocket of his jeans, topping off his coffee with a heavy pour of liquor.
Some days, I feel bad for Patrick. He was popular in high school and good on the football field, but that luster has long worn off. Nowadays, he looks like he’s barely keeping himself together. His flat blond hair is receding and thinning. His stomach hangs over the top of his jeans, and his skin carries a sickly sheen to it that doesn’t pair well with the alcoholic bloat.
Most of the time, I can’t muster up any pity for him, though. I know he watches me while I work. I feel his beady little eyes slither down my body, and I wish I wore a chain mail suit instead of this old-fashioned diner dress.
Today my attention slips though. With Ben here, I’m distracted. That’s the only possible explanation for how I missed Patrick following me down the hall on one of my bathroom breaks. I don’t notice him until he corners me right outside the door, slapping his hand against the wall and making me jump out of my skin.
“Raelynn Birdie, you gonna let me take you out on a date soon like I’ve been asking?”
His other hand touches my shoulder, spinning me to face him. His words are meant to be seductive, but they make my skin crawl. Or maybe that’s just his rotten breath.
I turn around and force a tight smile as my stomach ties itself into a knot. This isn’t the first time Patrick’s tried to get handsy with me, pressuring me about going out with him, but I’ve been good at weaseling out of tight situations, good at easing his sour moods. Unfortunately, I know one of these days, he’s not going to take no for an answer.
I don’t want any trouble. This job is cushy compared to what most have to do to get by in this town. Pouring coffee, smiling at the regulars, minding my own business—I won’t let Patrick mess that up for me.
“Come on, Patrick. You know I don’t date.”
I try to sound easy breezy, but his brows furrow and he sniffs in an angry breath, his nostrils flaring.
He steps closer and I hold my hand up in self-defense, trying to push him away. He catches hold of my wrist and tightens his grip enough to make my skin smart.
“Yeah. Why is that, Birdie?” he asks, leaning in closer. “You think you’re too good for me? You were always such a brat back in high school. Stared down your nose at the rest of us like we couldn’t tell.”
He’s mistaken.
I would have bent over backward to join his group of friends. In high school, I sat by myself at lunch with a book or homework splayed out in front of me, sneaking glances at the popular table. I used to wonder how they did it—just smiled and laughed without a care in the world. I wanted to be like them. I wanted to be them. I’d missed that part of growing up. Life had plucked me from childhood and thrust me straight into adulthood so that on the outside I might have looked like any other teenager, but inside, I felt a thousand years old.