Page 8 of Fade With Me

“Oh, trust me…” I held his gaze, letting my smile take its time. “So would I.”

The moment lingered, an undeniable spark between us, before I turned and pushed through the swinging kitchen doors. The sizzle of the griddle and the familiar scent of overcooked batter hit me as I stepped inside.

A few minutes later, I returned with a steaming plate of pancakes—sadly overdone, the blueberries now soggy. I set the dish in front of him and met his gaze with a cringe, half apology, half warning, then braced myself for his inevitable reaction.

But instead of scowling, he actually looked pleased. “Blueberry, excellent choice,” he said, his eyes sparkling as he reached for the syrup bottle.

A wave of calm settled over me, the pressure in my chest deflating like a balloon.

“I hope they’re nottooterrible,” I said, offering a small, sheepish shrug. I tried to keep my tone light, though a hint of uncertainty slipped through.

He took his first bite, and his eyes lit up with genuine appreciation. With a quick thumbs-up, his approval was clear. No words needed.

Relief washed over me, warm, unexpected, and a far cry from what I would’ve felt if Reggie had been the one sitting across from me, picking apart the food and somehow making it my fault.

But this guy? He was different.

I moved on to a few other tables, the clink of glasses and hum of conversation creating a cozy rhythm in the diner.

Pausing at the front counter to catch my breath, I felt Sal’s gaze fixed on me, steady and unblinking, like he expected me to read his mind.

“Yeah?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

His frustration was obvious, his voice edged with annoyance. “So…what’s the deal with him? Why’s he still here?” He jerked his chin toward the man leisurely enjoying his pancakes. “You’d think he’d have better things to do than hang around our diner all morning.”

I circled around him, letting out a quiet sigh as I sank into the corner chair. My shoulders slumped, and I casually picked up my crossword puzzle, tapping the pencil against the paper before pretending to focus on the grid. “Guess he’s sticking around for breakfast.”

Silence settled between us, thick with his disapproval. I looked up, met his stare, and tilted my chin in defiance. Then I turned back to the puzzle, the cryptic clues suddenly more appealing than anything Sal had to say.

“Apparently, he’s here on a business trip from New York,” I said, keeping my tone flat. “He’ll be around for a few months.” I waved a hand, brushing it off. “Oh, and get this, he called my dress ‘incredible.’”

A proud smile tugged at my lips as I ran my fingers over the silk, admiring the intricate stitching and craftsmanship.

He turned to the register, counting the bills with excruciating slowness, as though savoring the touchof each dollar. “Come on, he doesn’t care about the dress…just what’s under it.” A smug smirk played on his mouth.

I spun around, stunned. “I highly doubt that.”

Even as the words left my lips, uncertainty crept in. Could it be that he truly meant the compliment? Or did he see me as little more than an object to admire, a fleeting distraction? Men of his…status probably saw women that way. The thought lingered, unwanted, but I quickly pushed it aside.

He froze, his hands pausing mid-motion as he turned fully toward me. His eyes slid over me, lingering on every curve with a sharp, sarcastic gleam. “Yeah, you’re probably right,” he muttered, his voice thick with disdain. With a brief nod, he returned to his task, his focus back on the money.

Was he serious? I wasn’t a supermodel, sure, but Sal wasn’t exactly a catch. His love life was as dry as the Sahara, and I’d bet my last dollar he wasn’t getting any action unless he paid for it. The thought was almost laughable.

As I headed back to the man’s table, I caught him glancing at his watch. The glint of gold drew my eye. Was that a Rolex? I’d only ever seen them in pictures, but this one looked real. It wasn’t just a timepiece: it was a statement—wealth, status, power.

“I apologize. I didn’t realize the time,” he said, tone rushed. “I really need to get going.” He pulled out hiswallet, slid free a sleek black American Express card, and handed it over with a flick of his wrist.

I nodded with a smile. “No problem at all. Just give me a sec to print your receipt.”

As I took the card, my gaze dropped to the name embossed at the bottom:Ezekiel Rykoff.Elegant script, dignified, like it belonged on a plaque or the spine of a leather-bound book.

The register beeped. I tore the receipts and returned to his table. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your day,” I said, polite but measured.

“Likewise, Bryn.” His crooked smile returned, along with a wink. His voice was warm, his gaze lingering a second too long.

He signed with a quick flourish, then pushed back his chair. As he walked away, I couldn’t help noticing the bold red soles of his shoes.

As soon as he disappeared from view, I bent to collect his plate. A sliver of green paper peeked from beneath the syrup holder. I retrieved the bills. My jaw dropped. Two hundred dollars? He’d left me a $200 tip?! I pocketed the cash, grinning to myself, fully aware that if Sal found out, he’d try to strong-arm half of it from me.

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