Page 24 of Since the Day We Left

Wendi shot him a pointed look. “You remember what happened last time ...”

Phil waved her off. “Max is always welcome here.”

Miles raised an eyebrow. “What happened?”

“Max swiped Mrs. Peterson’s biscuit straight off her plate. Then ran laps like he’d won the Super Bowl while half the diner chased him.”

“A little chaos never hurt anyone.” Phil chuckled. “Besides, business was slow that day—gave us something to talk about for weeks. Anyway, I’ll be back with your orders in a jiff!”

As Phil walked away, Miles sipped his coffee. “How long have you been back?”

“A little over a year.” She stirred her shake with the straw. “Made one call to the bank, got approved, and the shop was opened a few weeks later.”

“Bold move. One phone call and you got a store? Last time I tried that, I only got a pizza.”

The corner of Wendi’s mouth quirked upward. “So tell me something random about you. Can be anything.”

Miles leaned back, pretending to consider. “Easy one—I hate beer. Can’t do it. I always end up ordering fruity drinks instead.”

“No way! Same. People swear it’s an acquired taste, but I’m pretty sure that’s a lie.”

“Right? I can handle shots, no problem. But beer? Yeah, that’s a no-go for me.”

“Me too. Hate it ... Okay, I have an idea. On three, say your favorite drink. Ready?”

“Alright.”

Wendi counted down. “Three ... two ... one ...”

“Tequila Sunrise,” they both blurted at the exact same time. Then blinked.

“I knew there was a reason I liked you,” she said.

“Same. We’re getting them sometime soon.”

“Deal,” she said, as her gaze locked onto his.

Phil reappeared, setting down a towering stack of pancakes for Miles and a burger with golden fries for Wendi. “Enjoy, y’all.”

Miles cut into his pancakes, took a bite, and closed his eyes. “Okay, these pancakes might be life-changing.”

“Of course.” Wendi groaned as a drop of milkshake hit her dress. “Can’t take me anywhere.”

Without thinking, he slid his napkin across the table toward her. Their fingers brushed, and he caught himself studying the curve of her neck where it met her shoulder.

At that moment, Taylor Swift’s “This is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things” started playing on the jukebox. Wendi pointed at the speaker, and they both burst out laughing.

“Can’t make this up,” Miles said.

Wendi dramatically mouthed along with the chorus, and Miles joined in, using his spoon as an impromptu microphone. A few other diners glanced their way, but they were too busy to care, trying to outdo each other with increasingly ridiculous facial expressions as they silently performed the song.

After the bridge, Miles set the spoon down. “If it’s any consolation, you still look great, milkshake and all.”

“Thanks. I guess it’s not too obvious.” Wendi set the napkin down. “You know, I used to stress about stuff like this all the time. My ex always wanted me dressed up for something. Corporate dinners, networking events, designer everything. But mainly for him. Heaven forbid I decided not to wear makeup.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

“It was. And juggling that with my PR job at Pinnacle Hotels? Pure misery.”

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