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Through the heavy fog of my overthinking, I heard “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’” by Nancy Sinatra jamming through a nearby jukebox.
I whipped my head to see what was taking Row so long and found him by the register, still talking to Dahlia. A bombshell of a woman in her fifties, with a strong Louisiana accent, big, bleached hair, a slim waist, and enough makeup to cover the state of Idaho. Dahlia was all about Elvis, Jesus, and horses. Her only fear was God. Even He, I suspected, couldn’t comment on her business and get out of it in one piece. One of her faux-lashed eyes was twitching—a telltale sign she was angry—while Row appeared completely blasé, save for the red tips of his ears. Ropes of dread tightened around my stomach. This didn’t seem like a conversation as much as it did a standoff.
Row turned away from her, approaching me with his head held high. “Rain check on that coffee, Dot.”
“Why?” My voice trembled, but I stayed put in the booth.
From behind Row’s back, Dahlia peered at me apologetically.
“Let’s just go,” Row grumbled.
“Are they refusing to serve us?” I scanned the hostile looks daggered at our booth, blush creeping up my neck.
“No.” His nostrils flared. “They’re refusing to serve me. Now can we fucking leave?”
That was why they’d chosen this song on the jukebox. Unbelievable. My inner kindergarten teacher came out swinging, ready to put the whole town of Staindrop in some serious time-out.
“Not before I give her a piece of my mind.” I shot up to my feet, ambling over to Dahlia at the counter. She flinched when I stopped in front of her. Row trailed behind me like a mortified teenager whose mother had decided to go full-blown Karen on kids from his school.
Maybe it was because of his love declaration earlier. Hell, maybe it was because I knew Row needed a break, even if he didn’t show it, but I couldn’t sit there and watch others treat him like dirt.
“Cal, honey!” Dahlia popped her gum in greeting, snatching my hands and squeezing them over the bar. “You look beautiful. Heard ’bout your old man. So sorr—”
“What is this bull crap about you not serving us?” I pulled my hands away, planting them on my waist. My eyes twitched nervously, but I pushed through the tic. Surprised by my directness, Dahlia choked on her bubblegum, slapping her coffin nails to her rib cage with a cough.
“Honey, you’re always welcome in this establishment. There’s a uniform with your name on it if you ever need to make an extra buck. Although you do look like you might need a size up.” Her eyes quickly zipped over my body. “But see, Ambrose here’s another story. The way he’s been doin’ this town dirty—”
“He saved this town.” My palm landed on the counter with a smack, rattling the utensils and coffee cups on it. “Brought at least thirty jobs into Staindrop when he opened Descartes, and he is building the only new construction here in a decade! And, and, and…” I looked around me, registering the agape mouths of every patron at the diner. The Righteous Gang was here too. Agnes, Mildred, and Gertie were huddled around their pioneer breakfast. “He talks about Staindrop in interviews. All the time. He told The Atlantic that it has the best views in America and that everyone should come to see it at least once. To The New York Times, he said that Dahlia’s Diner was the first place he’d ever tasted poached eggs. This man is a regional treasure. How can you treat him like an enemy?”
Okay, so I might’ve googled him one or three thousand times since he’d reentered my life. Sue me for being thorough. Serial killers came in every shape and form. You can never be too careful.
Melinda and Pete were seated in the far corner of the room, murmuring intensely between themselves. A few other locals I recognized from the town hall meeting were following my unfolding public meltdown.
“Sorry, honey.” Dahlia scrunched her nose. “Ambrose Casablancas isn’t our own anymore. Mayor Murray told us all about what he has in store for us. He’s ruinin’ this town, and in Staindrop, we don’t forget.”
“Let me tell you something, Dahl.” I pointed at her with a squint. “If he’s not welcome here, then neither am I. People are treating this man like he is subhuman. Vandalizing his new construction. Slashing his tires. Sending him hate mail—”
“All right, little spitfire. Time to leave.” Row’s fingers curled around my bicep. Desire twirled around my limbs like ivy, sending shivers down my spine. Crap. Keeping him out of my corduroy flared jeans was going to be a struggle. “I’d rather pass a kidney stone than sip the shitty coffee here anyway.” Row pinned Dahlia with a provocative look.
“Excuse me?” Dahlia, whose face was now the color of a crime scene, straightened her back. She flung an accusing finger his way. “You didn’t seem to have any issues with my cuppa joe while growin’ up.”
“I have since developed this thing called taste,” he answered, deadpan, eyes raking her. “Judging by what you did with the place, I trust it doesn’t ring a bell.” He eyed the turquoise walls with distaste.
It was going to be hard to make Grumpy McGrumpson here win people over.
“He didn’t mean it.” I smiled politely.
“Yes, I did.” Row stood his ground, his hand still on my bicep. The fog of desire made it hard for me to breathe.
“Take that back.” Dahlia’s nostrils flared.
“Nah.” He flashed a half-moon smirk. “And your skillet dish? Drier than fucking Lent month in Italy.”
“That’s it.” She pointed at our booth. “Sit your ass back down, and I’ll serve you the best damn coffee your mouth’s ever tasted.”
“Dahlia!” Melinda gasped, a forkful of maple-drenched pancake midway to her mouth. “We had an arrangement.”
“I hereby unarrange it.” Dahlia’s lips thinned into a snarl, and she seemed determined to prove Row wrong. She rounded the counter, grabbing two menus and the lobe of his ear. “He called my eggs dry and my coffee shitty.”
