Page 18 of Catching Flynn

“Got it again.” Zack tucked the pad into his apron. “I’ll have that out to you. Wish I could stay and talk, but it’s busy as hell right now.”

Flynn let out a tiny breath through his nose that almost counted as a laugh. “I appreciate any way you get them here.”

Once Zack headed off, Zavier wrapped both hands around his coffee mug as soon as it arrived. The ceramic was hot enough to sting pleasantly. Across from him, Flynn sat curled slightly inward, shoulders narrower than usual, eyes fixed on the sugar caddy.

“We’ll handle it,” Zavier said. “I’m not letting anything happen to you.”

Flynn peeled open a sugar packet though he drank coffee black most mornings. “I know.”

A spoon clinked against ceramic as he dumped sugar into the mug anyway. He stirred and stirred, though the granules had long since dissolved. “I just hate that they saw you. That’s the part making me want to throw up.”

Zavier held his gaze. “You don’t get to apologize for somebody else’s threat.”

Flynn’s hand stilled on the spoon. Steam rose between them, carrying roasted freshness and cold milk from somewhere nearby. “Still feels like I should.”

Before Zavier could answer, Zack appeared balancing plates.

“Okay, so,” he said as he set them down, “if anything is wrong, blame the universe.”

He vanished again before either of them could speak.

Zavier looked down.

A plate of blueberry waffles sat in front of him, syrup already pooling into the butter. In front of Flynn sat a skillet of eggs, sausage, and potatoes with a side of wheat toast.

He stared at the food. Then at Flynn’s pancake-less place setting. Then back at the food.

Flynn picked up his fork like this happened every day and maybe it did. “Just go with it.”

Zavier lifted his gaze. “This is not what we ordered.”

“Correct.” Flynn cut into the eggs with eerie acceptance. “But the pancakes looked good in concept. In practice, who knows. This has potatoes. Potatoes have never betrayed me.”

The words had barely left his mouth when Zack hurried back, eyes widening. “Oh my God. No. No, that is not— I am so sorry.”

He whisked both plates away in a clatter of ceramic. “Do not touch anything. I’m fixing it.”

Zavier watched him disappear through the swing door.

Flynn took a sip of coffee and shrugged with one shoulder. “Maybe breakfast is just improv now.”

A minute later, Zack returned with fresh plates, set them down with determined care, and stepped back.

This time Zavier got French toast buried under powdered sugar and fruit compote. Flynn got biscuits and gravy with a side of scrambled eggs.

Zavier looked at the food. Very slowly, he looked up at Zack.

Zack closed his eyes. “I quit. Axel can run his own damn diner.”

From the pass-through, a booming voice barked, “No you don’t.”

The other waiter shook his head.

Flynn didn’t even flinch. He tore off a piece of biscuit, dipped it in gravy, and said, “Honestly? Let’s just commit. Besides, the pancakes looked good, but this has potential.”

Zavier kept staring at his French toast.

Flynn nudged the syrup toward him. “Live a little.”