Page 30 of Their Stormy Reunion

Her laughter broke free this time, full and warm, wrapping around me like a familiar embrace. God, I’d missed that sound.

Lettie grinned knowingly and asked, “Do you want your cinnamon roll now?”

“Yeah. That way Fallon can steal some off my plate,” I said, shooting Fallon a mock-accusatory glance. My tone was light, but the teasing glint in her eyes made me feel like I’d scored a touchdown.

“Can you bring extra butter?” Fallon added, her voice syrupy sweet, though her smirk practically screamed mischief.

“Sure thing,” Lettie replied.

I turned my attention fully to Fallon. “You’re looking mighty beautiful this morning,” I said, my voice intentionally carrying across the room, making a bold declaration.

Fallon leaned forward, narrowing her eyes at me. “Stop it. I know what you’re doing,” she hissed under her breath, her expression caught between annoyance and embarrassment.

“I’ve missed you,” I said, again loud enough for the whole diner to catch it.

“Just stop it,” Fallon snapped, her voice sharp but barely above a whisper.

“Well, I have missed you,” I said softly this time, leaning in like it was a secret meant just for her.

She sighed, dropping her gaze to the table. “Stop trying to make people like me. I’m fine being the town pariah. I don’t care what they think.”

“I do,” I replied, my tone steady, certain. “I’m the bad guy here, not you.”

“Michael, it’s too little, too late. I’m past caring.”

I saw the hurt on her face before she could mask it, and it made my teeth ache.

Before I could respond, Lettie reappeared. She set a plate with the warm cinnamon roll onto the table, extra butter glistening on a small dish beside it. The scent alone was enough to make my mouth water.

“Here’s your cinnamon roll,” Lettie said, flashing a quick smile before heading off to tend another table.

I pushed the plate toward Fallon. She ignored it. I pushed it further toward her. “Come on, you know you want it.”

Her hazel eyes looked up at me, and I could see her wavering. I started to pull the plate back toward me.

“Give me that,” she cried as she tugged at the plate and carefully picked up the knife and sliced the roll in half with careful precision that could rival a surgeon. She slathered five—five—pats of butter onto her half as if it were a critical mission. I sat back and watched, half in awe, half in agony as she broke off a piece and popped it into her mouth.

Her lips glistened with icing and butter, her fingers catching the excess. And then she licked them clean—slowly, deliberately, like she knew exactly what kind of hell she was putting me through. The twinkle in her eyes confirmed it.

God help me.

I reached for her mug and swapped it with mine, setting hers close so she could add the gallon of cream and mountain of sugar I knew she preferred. She glanced up, startled, and then smiled, soft and genuine.

“I still hate black coffee,” she admitted, reaching for the creamer pods.

“So, nothing much has changed, huh?” I teased, watching as she methodically poured in enough creamer and sugar to turn her coffee into dessert. This was one of the ways that Fallon kept the curves I had always so desperately loved.

“Oh, I’d say some things have changed.” Her voice was measured, her eyes meeting mine with a steady gaze. “I’m not as quick to jump to conclusions anymore.”

The back of my neck prickled. “What do you mean by that?”

She swirled her coffee with her spoon, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Just that I’ve learned not everything is as it seems. Dealing with tough clients taught me that. It’s one thing to deliver what they say they want, but getting to the heart of what they really want? That’s the key.”

I tilted my head, intrigued. “How do you do that?”

She set the spoon down, leaning back in her chair. “I dig into their history. Past behavior usually predicts future behavior. If they’re suddenly making a complete one-eighty, I figure out what’s driving the change. If there’s no clear reason, I tread carefully.”

“Sounds like a solid approach,” I said, nodding.