Текст книги " Bittersweet"

Автор книги: Sarah Ockler

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Chapter Seven

How to Appear Outwardly Cool While Totally Freaking Out on the Inside Cupcakes

Chilled vanilla cupcakes cored and filled with whipped vanilla buttercream and dark chocolate shavings, topped with vanilla icing and a sugared cucumber slice

Blue-and-silver jersey number seventy-seven, harper, skates back and forth in front of his eighteen teammates. From my spot in the player’s box, I check the roster and count the boys three times to be sure, looking them each in the eye as I do. It’s a thing I learned from that show where the guy gets dropped in the jungle with nothing but a pillowcase, a pack of gum, and a tampon applicator: Make eye contact with wild animals to claim your territory and avoid a beatdown.

Today’s primary goal: avoid beatdown. Check.

“It’s no secret the Wolves are struggling,” Will says.

“Struggle. To flounder or stumble.” Thirty-two, FELZNER, defense, taps away on his cell.

“We’re definitely stumbling, yo.” NELSON, sixty, also defense. He grabs his crotch and spits, then winks at me in the box. Aside from the spitting and groping, which under normal circumstances I don’t find all that attractive, Brad Nelson’s kind of a dead ringer for that model Tyson Beckford.

I slip off my gloves and lower the zipper on my fleece.

“We’ve lost focus,” Will continues. “We’re not playing like a team. Our morale is low. I get it.”

“Eh, we bite.” DEVRIES, oh-seven, left wing. The smallest of the line, Rowan DeVries sports the unfortunate combination of braces, freckles, and tangerine-red curls. He seems better suited to racing hockey players in a video game.

I flip past the roster and scan the rest of Will’s notes. According to the files, the Watonka Wolves haven’t been to a national competition in over twenty years. The last time our varsity hockey team even won a division championship, these particular boys were still in diapers.

I’ve certainly got my work cut out for me this month.

As I make my steady, intentional eye contact, the packmates stare back. Hard. Rowan aside, they’re all about the same size, big and broad-shouldered, muscle and attitude. Just as Will promised, everyone showed up, skipping their Guitar Hero matches or raw meat–eating contests or whatever it is boys do in their free time, but most of them don’t really mean it. They’re only half-equipped, some of them in worn jerseys while others are just wearing sweatshirts and track pants. Five didn’t bother with helmets. Two keep checking their phones, texting and scrolling, counting down the seconds until someone calls with a better offer.

Will skates to the center of the pack, his skates stopping in a T. He nods toward me in the box. “We have a guest today.”

I wave, forgetting all about the cool man-nod I practiced in front of the mirror. Josh smiles at me from the line. Oh. Is the pancreas on the left side? Because I think mine just twitched.

“Some of you guys probably know Hudson Avery,” Will says. The statement elicits a few grunts. One discernible “yeah.” Two sneezes. A yawn. Wow. Just as I suspected, I’ve made quite an impression at the Watonka Central School District. Perhaps I should refresh their memories with a few stories from the good ole days, like the one where right wing Parker Gilgallon wets his pants during sixth-grade crab soccer, or where defense Eddie Dune got the nickname “Gettysburg” for flashing the crowd during center Micah Baumler’s recital of the Gettysburg Address, right after the four score and seven years part.

“She can skate,” Will continues. “Really skate. And unless you scare her off by acting like your mouth-breather selves, she might be able to help us. Off the record, of course.”

Shuffles. Groans. Another sneeze. Perhaps my hot-pink zip-up fleece wasn’t such an award-winning idea; much more Barbie on Ice than the Icelandic barbarian skatetrix Dani and I envisioned earlier this week when we discussed the hockey strategy. Still, I expected and planned for this exact scenario, and no one needs to know that behind my confident fuchsia-and-bubble-gum exterior, just above my hockey-boys-you-will-take-this-ass-seriously stretchy jeans, my stomach is trying to run up into my esophagus.

Hudson Avery, you are a professionally trained ice-skater. You can do spirals and axels and lutzes around these guys all day long. You are a beautiful woman with the strength of an ox, …

Yes! I step out of the box, blades firm on the ice.

… the ferocity of a lioness, …

Absolutely! I hold my head high.

… the grace of a gazelle….

No doubt! Right foot next, firm on the—firm! No! I said firm! With the grace of a—

Gazelle.

I’m flat on my stomach, splayed out in an X, cartoon-falling-off-cliff style. As a competitive figure skater, I spent a good majority of my training perfecting the best way to fall on my ass, and I’m not even doing that right anymore. What is it with me and hockey boys?

Across the ice, thirty-eight black skates are level with my head. White laces looped through silver eyelets. Toes scuffed. Thick blades. Four of them move toward me. Slash-slash, slash-slash, slash-slash.

Will and Josh grab my arms and help me to my feet.

“You okay?” Josh’s face tightens the way it did after our collision at Fillmore.

“Yeah. I think so.”

“You totally bit it,” Will says through that megawatt smile. “Blackthorn didn’t even have to train-wreck you this time.”

“You gonna teach us how to walk, Princess Pink?” GILGALLON, twenty-nine. Pretty ballsy for a pants-wetter, if you ask me. “I wouldn’t want you to break a nail.”

If I wasn’t so utterly pink right now, I might just skate over there and knee him in the—

“Back off, Gilgallon,” Josh warns. He and Will may be my only allies on the ice. Which is unfortunate, considering there are seventeen other guys staring me down, all looking for a reason to unilaterally dismiss me.

“So, um, why are you here, exactly?” Grab, spit, grab goes Brad Nelson.

“Seriously, mamí.” Left wing TORRES, lucky number thirteen, shakes his head. “Hockey rink ain’t the place for candy-ass little girls. Maybe you should go home and play with your dollies.”

“Dude, shut it.” Will smacks Frankie’s arm while the other guys laugh. “Seriously, you all right to keep going, Hud?”

I press my hand against my fleece pocket, Lola’s letter crinkling inside. You gotta want it, kiddo. Really want it. I take a deep breath and feel the rink beneath my blades, the familiar solidity coming up through my legs. All winter I’ve come to the ice sporadically, a secret affair. Without reason. Without direction. Looping like a tiny snowflake swirling on the wind, no idea how far I’d drift or where I’d end up, hoping only that I wouldn’t melt before I got there.

But here, now, my reason skates to the surface.

Will and I made a deal. I’m laced up. I’m on the ice. And for the first time since I ditched the competition track three years ago, I have a purpose.

And like old Lola used to say, “I didn’t keep myself alive another lousy day just to watch you half-ass your way across the rink, bambina. Capisce?”

“Wolf pack, right?” I ask, newly emboldened by the stone-cold Lola-cool in my voice. “That’s what they call you?”

“How-ooooo!” JORDAN, ninety-nine, goalie. Amir Jordan is actually howling. Head thrown back, olive-brown skin and shaggy black hair gleaming under the fluorescents like a real wolf in the moonlight. The whole thing is pretty frightening, and I don’t mean in the sexy “Team Jacob” kind of way.

I suck in a breath of cold air and channel some more Lola, slapping my gloves against my hip. “All right, wolf pack. When was the last time you won a game?”

Slap.

“Tied a game?”

Slap.

“Lost by less than a point?”

“Speaking of points, Princess Pink … you got one?” Brad again. You know, for someone so hot, he shouldn’t be so wound up.

“Chill out, Nelson,” Josh says.

“But homegirl doesn’t know jack about hockey! You just want to—”

“Ever hear of James Creighton?” I glide toward them, skating along the blue line.

“Who?” Micah Baumler asks.

“Creighton. Father of ice hockey?”

Skates shuffle. Helmets bow.

“He’s in the hockey hall of fame,” I continue. “And by the way, wolf pups, the father of your favorite sport was also a figure skating judge. So let’s drop all this ‘homegirl doesn’t know jack’ b.s. and focus on the biggest challenge this school has ever seen: breaking your flawlessly pathetic ten-year losing streak.”

“Ten years?” Rowan laughs. “It hasn’t been that long, Hudson.”

“Have you read the files?”

He looks up at me, lowering his voice as if we’re sharing some big secret. Which, apparently, we are. “What files?”

“From the—”

“If you’re done with the history lesson, can we go now?” Chuck Felzner whines, still messing with his phone.

“Yeah, I’m starving,” Brad says. “You guys wanna hit up Papallo’s? Ten-cent wings tonight.”

Frankie fist bumps him. “Man, you know I want in on that.”

Josh holds up his hands. “Come on, guys. Practice isn’t over.”

Oblivious to his protests, the team shuffles collectively toward the locker room.

“You coming out with us, Princess?” Brad winks at me again before he leaves, but I shake my head and he follows the rest of the pack off the ice.

Will and Josh, the only two wolves on the rink, exchange a frustrated glance.

“I’ll try again,” Josh says. He skates to the edge and slips the guards over his blades, hobbling into the locker room to find his teammates.

“Sorry about that,” Will says. “Not bad for your first try, though.” He squeezes my shoulder. I remember Dani’s “smoldering” comment in French class the other day and gently shrug him off.

“If that’s what you call ‘not bad,’ no wonder your team sucks.”

Will laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Ouch.”

“Sorry.” I’m not trying to hurt anyone’s feelings out here, but … not bad? Seriously? On the scale of things going bad, one being my infamous Black Melons cupcake fail—watermelon cupcakes with black licorice icing that even Bug refused—and ten being, let’s say, the Cold War, I’d call today’s meet and greet about a seven thousand. Hot-pink zip-up? Training Watonka’s hockey thugs? My so-called candy-ass moves against ten-cent wings at Papallo’s?

“It’s okay. It’s just the first night.”

“Will, this isn’t going to work. The guys don’t—”

“The guys don’t realize how much they need you. But they will.”

“I don’t belong out here with—”

“Yes, you do. It’s hard for them—no one wants to admit we need outside help.”

“You mean help from a girl.”

“I mean help from anyone not on the team.”

I slip my gloves back over my hands and flex my fingers. “Why don’t we talk to the coach, then? If he signs me on officially, maybe the guys will—”

“No way.” Will shakes his head. “Dodd is still technically our coach, but he doesn’t care about helping us win. And if he knew about you, he’d flip. Not to mention we’re probably violating some school insurance policy. I’m serious, Hudson. You can’t tell people about this—especially Dodd.”

I shove my hands in my fleece pockets, gloved fingers scratching against the foundation letter. “You’re giving me a lot of reasons to walk away.”

“I’m also giving you a big one to stay.” He looks out across the empty, unblemished rink and smiles, and we both know he’s right. Surly hockey boys or not, I need the ice time.

“You don’t have to decide right now,” Will says. “You wanted the ice tonight after practice? It’s all yours. Just let Marcus know when you’re done. He’s the manager here. He’s in the office down the hall—white ponytail, Sabres hat.”

“Thanks.”

“Have a good workout.” Will gives me one last squeeze and skates off toward the locker room.

Once he’s gone, I check the laces on my skates, do some light stretching, and push off the back edge. Methodically I loop into my figures, eyes closed, the cut and swish of the blades bringing me back to the only place besides the predawn Hurley’s kitchen that calms me. I’m still mangled from the Wolves firing squad, but a deal is a deal, and holy snowballs—compared to Fillmore, the ice here at Baylor’s is a downright dream.

I pick up speed as my legs get a feel for the place, each muscle rejoicing at the smoothness of the groomed indoor rink. I’m much faster here. Looser. Uninhibited. Just like I remember.

I skate hard to the other end and loop back, twisting into a scratch spin, tight and fast, arms high above my head as my feet twirl against the ice and …

Bam!

My ass hits the rink with the thud heard round the world.

“This sucks.” I drag myself up for another go.

“Rough night, huh?”

I whip around so fast, I almost lose my footing again. Almost. Josh smiles and glides across the rink, still in his skates and practice gear.

“Just you and me,” he says. “Will went to Papallo’s to talk some sense into them. I didn’t have any luck.”

“No luck, and no wings, either? Talk about a rough night.”

Josh laughs and motions for me to follow him around the perimeter. I fall in next to him, both of us taking long, comfortable strides along the edge.

“Hudson, when I first asked you about this … I mean, if I’d known Will would rope you into the team thing, I never would’ve mentioned it to him.”

“No. I really need the ice time. I just don’t know why he thought I could help the Wolves. I might as well be invisible out here.”

Josh shakes his head. “Will believed me when I told him about you—about what I saw at Fillmore. That’s why he thought you could help.”

I keep my eyes on the ice, my cheeks burning. “In that case, sorry I let you down.”

“You kidding me? The guys are mostly idiots, Hud. Seriously. Sometimes I think we need sensitivity training more than technical work.”

“Perfect! Next time I’ll bring journal prompts. We can all write about our feelings, and after that, we’ll listen to some Indigo Girls and make friendship bracelets.”

Josh’s eyebrows go up. “That … sounds pretty awesome. Hockey with feelings. I can dig it.”

We continue our shoulder-to-shoulder loop, picking up speed until we’re practically racing. He’s taller than me, and definitely strong, but I keep up with him anyway, matching his increased pace at each turn. On our fourth time around, I stop at the box for my water bottle.

“Man, I’m out of shape.” I try not to pant like a straight-up dog, but my lungs burn.

“Come on, you’re holding your own out there. I’m impressed.”

I take another swig and cap the bottle. “Don’t be. I’m good on the short bursts, but I suck at endurance stuff.”

“I know a trick for that. Something you probably didn’t learn at skate club.”

“I’m all ears. Um, skates. Whatever.” I clamp shut my cornier-than-thou mouth and follow Josh to the center line.

For the next twenty minutes we practice a hockey drill—some sort of sideways run-hop-slide move. I have no idea what it’s called officially, but if my lungs and thighs have their say, we’ll be calling it the Crusher. Or the Killer. Or the What-the-Hell-Have-You-Gotten-Us-Into-You-Stupid-Girl-er. By the time we finish a few sets, I’m ready to curl up and zonk out, right here on the rink.

“Strange night,” I say when we finally change out of our skates and pack up our gear. “Not sure I can handle a weekly dose of this stuff.”

“Whatever you’re training for, it has to be important, right?” Josh asks.

“Just my only chance at going to college and getting out of here. NBD, as my little brother says.”

Josh zips up his bag and throws it over his shoulder. “Then you have to do it, right? Give us another shot? Your future totally depends on it.”

“That’s a fact, fifty-six?”

“Just looking out for your best interests.”

“Aww, how selfless.” I laugh as we wave good night to Marcus and head out the front door together, my hips already feeling the burn of tonight’s workout. Josh walks me to the Tetanus Taxi, the banged-up Toyota 4Runner I inherited from Trick, and waits in the passenger seat until it’s warm and ready to roll.

“What do you say? One more chance?” He looks at me and smiles, his eyes softened by the muted green lights of the dash, and I revise my original estimate on the night’s badness scale from seven thousand to three.

“The thugs of Watonka can’t scare me off that easily,” I say, thinking of that smooth Baylor’s ice. “I’ll be back.”

“Sweet!” He pulls his hat over his ears and slides out of the truck, breath fogging as soon as it hits the outside air. “See you in school, Avery.”

My muscles ache, my bones are battered, and my feet feel like they ran a shoeless marathon over broken glass, but tonight, after I pay Mrs. Ferris, get Bug to bed, and sink my head into that cool, worn pillow, I pull the comforter tight beneath my chin and sleep better than I have all year.

Chapter Eight

The Good, the Bad, and the Cupcakes

Oatmeal pumpkin cupcakes shot through with chocolate fudge, topped with a thin layer of fudge icing and toasted coconut tumbleweeds

“So, the stretchy jeans. Did they or did they not get the job done?” Dani demands, watching me over a bowl of peaches-and-cream batter on our usual Saturday-morning shift. “Usual” meaning I still had to be here before sunrise to bake, only now, instead of hitting up Fillmore for a late-morning break while my cupcakes cool, I’ll be working the floor. After nearly a week of training, I’m still not winning any customer service awards, but it is getting easier.

I pour the batter into cups and slide everything into the oven. “Promise you won’t laugh.”

“Are you kidding me with this right now? I gave up ladies’ night so you could hang with the hockey boys, and you’re making conditions?”

“Promise!”

“Okay, okay. No laughing.” She drops a stack of laminated menus on the counter for their weekly wipedown. “Now tell me!”

I clear my throat for dramatic effect. “For starters, every time I see hockey boys, I bite it on the ice.”

“You fell? Again?” Dani’s cough-that’s-supposed-to-cover-the-laugh-she-promised-not-to-do is only slightly muted by the howl of a passing ambulance out back.

“Hey! I said no laughing! This is so not funny.”

“It’s totally funny. You’re the most graceful person I know. I can’t believe you’re such a klutz around your crush.”

“He’s not my—”

“Mmm-hmm.” Dani tosses an unsavable grease-stained menu into the trash. “You know, hon, it occurred to me that this whole Wolves thing might be a really bad idea. What kind of a hockey team has not one, but three black dudes? No wonder they can’t win.”

“You think we live in Norway or something? Amir Jordan is Pakistani. There’s also an Asian guy, some Puerto Ricans, and the starting left wing has, like, carrot-hair. He must be Irish. It’s the whole UN over there.”

“Yeah, but did you ever notice there aren’t many black guys in the NHL? There’s no hockey in the homeland, Hud. It’s unnatural.”

“I’m pretty sure there’s no corned beef hash in the homeland, either, but you dogged that stuff Trick cooked up like it was your job.”

Dani laughs. “You’re just a regular, hockey-playing Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you?”

I scoop some brown sugar into a bowl of buttercream, add two drops of orange tint, and flip on the mixer. “I’m not playing. Just helping out with a few practices so I can train afterward. Which, by the way, was your idea.”

“I know.” She lets the air out of her lungs, slow and loud, all the funny stuff suddenly erased. “Hudson, listen. I get that you pretty much skated right out of your mother’s uterus, okay? No doubt you can rock the rink from here to Antarctica, and that scholarship is a kick-ass opportunity.”

“Okay, one: Don’t mention my mother’s uterus. And two: That scholarship is the only reason I’m doing this.”

“I know, and I’m with you. If you want to get back out there, pull on those skates and lace ’em up, girl. I’ll be in the stands, stompin’ out my Hudson cheer. Just be realistic, too. You have a lot going on right now, and—”

“Hold up.” I flip off the mixer. “You have a Hudson cheer?”

“Maybe.”

“There’s no singing involved, is there?”

“That’s not—”

“Trust me, Dani. I can work this. They just need me once a week. And with the extra money from waitressing, I’ll pay Mrs. Ferris to stay longer with Bug. All I have to do is keep up with cupcake orders, put in my Hurley Girl time, and fly under the Mom-radar long enough to train for my competition. Two, three months tops.”

“Then what?” Finished with the menus, Dani grabs the clean silverware bin and a stack of paper napkins. “The wolf pack comes back from the dead, you score the Capriani thing, and you and the boys dash off into the sunset on your magical golden ice skates? How ro-man-tic.”

“And leave all this behind?” I sweep my arms around the steel kitchen, air saturated with bacon and cupcakes and my entire family history. “No way.”

“You know you can’t get extra-hot extra–bleu cheese chicken finger subs in any other city. And if you ditch me right after high school, I’m not FedExing them.” She tries to laugh, but it comes out too fast, a soft rush that disappears as soon as it hits the light.

Dani’s a Western New York girl, all the way. We’ve talked about going to college in Buffalo together, sharing a dorm or apartment, staying close to home. Even if I got stuck helping out at the diner on weekends, we could still live together, still see each other every day. But now, with this skating opportunity, I could do something else. I could actually leave here. And we both know it.

I lean on the counter as my best friend methodically rolls forks and spoons into napkins, not meeting my eyes. When I saw her the first morning at my new bus stop freshman year, she was like the one-girl welcoming committee, all dimples and crazy black curls that bounced when she laughed. She’d recently moved to the neighborhood, too—from some place in North Buffalo—and everything about her was different from me and the world I’d just left behind. When she smiled, it was like when the sun unexpectedly comes out in the middle of a harsh winter, and I just turned to the light of her.

Still, things had blown up with Kara and I wasn’t ready for a replacement. I kept my distance—polite yet cool, friendly but not too inviting. It was the I-fly-solo vibe that I’d spent the aftermath of my father’s disappearing act perfecting, but it didn’t faze Dani. She’d wait for me at the bus stop every morning and sit next to me for the ride, sharing her cherry-frosted Pop-Tarts and asking me what kind of music I listened to and how I liked our apartment and whether I had any siblings. Nothing about skating or competitions or coaches. Nothing about Kara and the friends I’d ditched. From that very first day, Dani looked at me like no one else had in years—without expectations, pity, or disappointment.

I fell in love with her then.

“Mom will be here any minute,” I say softly. “Let’s make sure everything’s ready.”

“Cowboy at table seven’s yours today, babe,” Dani says, armed with an empty coffee carafe and a devious grin. “Be warned: He likes to send his food back a lot, and he only tips a dollar, no matter what the bill is. Watch his hands. Oh, and don’t bend over in front of him.”

I tighten the strings on my apron. “Thanks for the A&E biography. If you know him so well, why don’t you take him?”

Dani shrugs. “Consider it your final rite of passage. If you can handle Cowboy, you can handle anyone.”

“That’s what you said about the Buff State frat boys at table twelve.” I tug on the bottom of my dress, square my shoulders, and head out to face the country music.

“Howdy,” the man says with a cheesy wink. “I’ll do the usual.”

“Sounds good. Um, what is it?”

He looks me up and down and sighs loudly through his nose. “Large orange juice, hot coffee, black, two sugars, side-a home fries, and a westerner omelet, with extra cowboys and Indians, if you please.”

Folks, we’ve got a live one here.

“OJ, coffee, home fries, western. Got it.” I scoot back toward the kitchen to put in the order, but frat house central snags me before I clear the floor.

“Can we get some more nog, please?” One of them points to his empty glass. Mom really needs to reconsider the bottomless eggnog deal. I’ve spilled so much of it on my Hurley Girl dress, the bacon grease stains are jealous. Besides, I hate that word. Nog. Ugh.

“More nog, coming right up.” I try to smile, but my cheeks hurt.

“And some ketchup,” another says.

“Sure thing.” I turn back to the kitchen.

“Oh, miss? Can I get a take-out box for this?”

“Take-out box, you got it.”

“More coffee, too.”

“Okay.” By the time I make it behind the beautiful, protective doors of the kitchen, I’m just one nod-and-smile away from stripping off the Hurley’s dress and running out onto the train tracks.

“Looks like a good crowd,” Mom says, zipping around the kitchen. “Maybe I shouldn’t take off just yet.”

“Ma, you can’t ditch Bug.” Mom’s supposed to leave early today—taking my little bro to the McKinley Mall to see Santa. Bug and I have conversed at length on mythical creatures, particularly after Santa missed our house the first Christmas after the divorce, but he lets Mom go on thinking he’s a big believer in all that naughty or nice crap. Probably because it’s one of the few occasions Mom takes off an entire afternoon just for him.

“Don’t worry about us,” I say. “We’ve got it all under control.”

“Okay, you’re right.” Mom scrapes a dried splotch of frosting from my apron with her thumbnail. “You’ve really taken to this, Hud. When things calm down after New Year’s, I’ll show you how to do inventory and food orders. Sound good?”

“Cool, Ma.” Mental notes: One, add cowboys and Indians to inventory list. Two, jab icicle into eye.

“Thanks, baby. For everything.” She leans in to kiss my cheek, and I inhale the scent of her grapefruit shampoo, mixed with the bacon-and-onions smell of the diner. Then I slip my arms around her waist and return her hug. But just for a second, because I have tables waiting, and those Peachy Keen cupcakes aren’t going to frost themselves.

“How’s it going at the O.K. Corral?” Dani asks at the prep counter.

“I’d rather be at Baylor’s falling on my ass in front of the Wolves.” I spread a generous pile of buttercream on a cupcake.

“Still crushing on the hockey boy, then?”

I flick a gob of frosting at her boob. “Shut up!”

She scrapes it off with her finger and points it at my chest. “You’re into him. I can tell—your vibe is totally different when you’re into someone.”

“How would you know what my ‘into someone’ vibe is? I haven’t had a boyfriend the whole time I’ve known you. Not to mention ever.”

“What about—”

“If you bring up Will and that party again, I’ll kill you with this spatula and make it look like an accident. And before you say another word, making out with a cardboard Johnny Depp at the movie theater on a dare doesn’t count, either.”

“I’ve got the Johnny pictures to prove it. Remember that.” Dani laughs as her gaze shifts to the window over the grill. “Hold up—isn’t that Josh Blackthorn?”

“Where?” I whip my head around as my icing-smudged hands rapidly smooth out my dress. But Josh isn’t there—just Cowboy reading the paper at table seven and frat guys pointing at their empty eggnog glasses again.

“Wow,” Dani says. “You walked right into that one.”

I pour a fresh round of nogs and arrange them on a serving tray. “I hate you.”

“I’m just saying you shouldn’t rule out any possibilities. You never know when love might find you.”

“Yeah, in between the pages of The Swashbuckling Adventures of Naked Pirates. Speaking of Johnny Depp.”

“Waffles up, Danicakes,” Trick says.

“Laugh it up, go ahead.” Dani grabs two plates of blueberry Belgian waffles and a side of bacon and nudges the kitchen doors with her foot.

“See, hon,” Trick says, “guys are like … well, take this here.” He grabs a peeled white onion, pointing at it with his giant knife. “Lots of layers, and—”

“How’s my omelet working, Dr. Ruth?”

Trick smiles, chopping up the onion into fine little bits. “Five minutes. Hey, we’re out of the ham quiche. Change the specials board to broccoli and cheese—we gotta move these greens before they die.”

“You got it.” One less pork product in the atmosphere is always a good thing.

After I deliver those nogs, Dani drags me behind the dining room counter. “You’re not gonna believe this, but Josh is here for real. I saw him in the parking lot.”

“That so?” I grab the whiteboard from the wall at the end of the counter and redo the quiche. “What a fascinating coincidence.”

“I’m not kidding. He’s already at the front door.”

“Danielle Bozeman, you are high-larious.” I crouch down to shove the dry-erase markers back under the counter. “Like Josh doesn’t have anything better to do than check me out in my bangin’ Hurley Girl dress.”

“Apparently not, because he’s headed right for you,” she singsongs.

“Oh yeah?” No one is seated at the counter, so I bend down a little farther and shake-shake-shake it. “How do I look? Think Josh has a good view of the show?”

“Perfect. I didn’t even have to buy tickets.”

Um … why does Dani suddenly sound like a dude?

“He’s really here, isn’t he?” I whisper out of the corner of my mouth. Dani nods, barely keeping it together as she slips back into the kitchen. Deserter!

I reach for a mug from the coffee station over my head. In a single swoop, I stand, grab the pot, and turn around, offering it to Josh with a bright, wide grin. “Hi, Josh! Coffee?”

He smiles. “Love some.”

“How do you take it?”

“Hot. I mean, cream. No sugar.” He parks himself at one of the counter stools and strips off his hat and scarf, hair sticking out funny in all the usual places. “So, was that little dance part of the two-two-two breakfast special?”

“Hudson!” Trick shouts through the window over the grill, just in time. “Bug’s here. I’m sending him out with your western.”

Bug pushes his way through the doors and passes me the hot plate. “Order up!”

“Thanks, kiddo.” I smile at Josh. “Josh? Bug. Bug? Josh. Be right back.”

Over at table seven, Cowboy’s got his fork in the eggs before I’ve even set the plate down. Through a mouthful of breakfast, he scowls at me and rolls his eyes.

“Darlin’,” he says, swallowing after the fact. “I know you’re new round here. But I ordered a bacon and cheese omelet, and you brought me a westernized omelet.” He hooks his arm around my waist, the food-coated fork still dangling from his fingers.

“But you ordered the western, sir.”