Page 6 of Monster Diner

“Sorry about Frank. He was a good one,” Gertrude said, patting her back.

“Yeah,” Lizzy replied, voice monotone.

“You must be in shock. It was so sudden. When was the last time you saw one another? I know I haven’t seen you in town since you and your mother moved away. How is she, by the way?” Gertrude asked invasive questions rapid fire. If Lizzy didn’t disengage, she’d be recounting her entire life’s story all afternoon.

“She’s good, and I hate to cut this short, but I’ve got a meeting.” Lizzy thumbed towards the door, slowly backing away.

Gertrude flapped her hand and smirked. “Of course, of course. You and Victor have lots to talk about.”

She didn’t need to ask how she knew. Even when Lizzy was a teenager, Gertrude was constantly meddling in everyone’s business.

With her back to the door, Lizzy waved at Gertrude as the old woman walked down Main Street to be certain she didn’t follow her inside and keep pestering her with questions.

Not paying attention to her surroundings, Lizzy collided with a very large, very firm body.

Lizzy yelped and tried to reverse course, but lost her balance on her kitten heels and tipped forward. She would have fallen face-first onto the pavement if it weren’t for the broad hand that reached to steady her with a flat palm against her belly.

“Careful,” he rumbled in her ear, his warm breath fanning against the back of her neck.

While it wasn’t out of character for her to run into people accidentally, what was shocking was that this stranger, who’d saved her from face-planting on the sidewalk, had zero emotions. No surprise, no annoyance, nothing. Either she’d gone fully numb, or this was Victor. He was the only other person she’d ever met whose feelings she couldn’t read. Besides her father.

She turned her head, her nose nearly brushing against his scarred teal cheek. She spun around and took in the nearly seven-foot-tall wall of patchy teal skin, the face bisected by scars, and the long black hair pulled up in the sluttiest man bun she’d ever seen.

It took her point five seconds to recognize the towering statue of reanimated and sculpted man flesh. Victor, devastatingly, hadn’t peaked in high school. If anything, he’d gotten hotter. Life really wasn’t fair. He was staring at her intensely, his dark brows furrowed. And not for the first time, she wished she could read his emotions. Was he mad at her for running into him, annoyed to have to deal with her? She hated that she couldn’t tell.

“Thanks for saving me from eating shit.” She laughed to ease the awkward tension forming between them.

“No problem. Shall we?” He opened the door for her, and she stepped into the diner.

This diner was ripped right out of the postwar diner boom. Her grandfather Frank Sr. had built the place and set the menu, and her father had carried on his legacy after he’d died. The same way Frank Jr. had presumably wanted her to carry on the family business. Growing up in the diner had planted the seeds for her love of vintage-style clothes and decor. The speckled Formica counter and round red-and-chrome stools were exactly how she remembered them, right along with the rows of plush red pleather booths, though they were now sun-faded. And the black-and-white tile was now bubbling and yellowed. It was the exact sort of aesthetic she’d been chasing for her home decor for years. The diner was empty, but the scent of maple syrup and bacon lingered in the air.

Her stomach growled. She’d subsisted on pretzels and caffeine to get here faster, and now she was starving.

“Hungry? I can make you pancakes if you’d like,” he said.

He worked here? The Ivy League aspirer? Maybe he had peaked in high school. That was mean. But Victor working here would certainly explain why he knew Frank. She couldn’t think of a connection between them other than her and Victor’s after-school hangouts, when they’d begged her dad for free milkshakes and fries.

“No, don’t trouble yourself,” she said. It felt wrong to ask him to cook for her if she was going to sell the business he worked at. A tiny worm of guilt burrowed into the back of her mind. She’d be a jerk to sell the business in general. Victor couldn’t be the only employee she’d displace. Unless she chose a buyer who’d keep the staff in the transition? No. That wasn’t her problem. She had to be strong.

“It’s no trouble at all. I love cooking for others.” He gave her a lopsided smile. It tugged at the scars on his cheek, creating a mock dimple.

If it weren’t less than twenty-four hours since she’d broken up with her loser boyfriend, she might have been swooning. But this was her problem. She never took time for herself between breakups. She jumped from relationship to relationship, job to job. She needed to settle the will, sell the house and diner, and start over. That was her agenda. No hot diversions. No exceptions.

But since he was offering, she couldn’t say no to free pancakes. She slid onto one of the stools and leaned over to peer through the service window as he worked the flat top. She listened to the sizzle of batter on the flat top and the clink of the spatula on metal. The dining room was empty. Tables cleaned. There was a middle-aged waitress around her age with curly brown hair streaked with gray at the bussing station, texting on her phone with a frown.

After a few minutes, Victor emerged from the kitchen with a small stack of pancakes. He set them down in front of her and served them with a big glob of butter and a pitcher of syrup. The sugary, buttery scent was intoxicating.

“Dig in.” He leaned against the back counter, arms crossed over his broad chest. His sleeves were rolled up, and she could see the scars and corded muscles of his forearms. Arms were her personal Achilles’ heel. The number of bad decisions she’d made because of hot forearms should be studied. Her eyes lingered a moment too long, and he caught her staring and returned it with a flirtatious(?) smirk. She wasn’t sure, she still couldn’t read his emotions.

She drizzled the pancakes with syrup and then cut into them with her fork. They were perfectly pillowy. She shoved a large bite into her mouth and moaned with pleasure unintentionally.

Heat flooded her face as she glanced up at Victor, mortified. But the expression that met hers was heated.

“I’m glad you like them,” he said, voice thick.

“Forgive me. I can be rather vocal when I’m eating.”

“I remember,” he said as he tilted his head towards her. “It’s charming.”