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Jesse Taylor drops down to his knees beside me. He swipes my hair back from my clammy forehead.
“Hey. Talk to me. What do you need?”
“What are you—?” I manage.
“Walking home,” he says. “It doesn’t matter. Stay here.”
Jesse locks the diner door and then rounds the counter. He clatters around in the back before reappearing with a glass of soda.
“Drink this. Sugar will help. Are you injured? Do you need me to call medical?”
It’s such a cop thing to say, and it brings me back to the present.
“No,” I say. “No.”
I take the water from him, mumble my thanks, and sip it. And god damn it, he’s right. It helps. The sweetness and the coldness.
Jesse sits on the floor beside me, wearing jeans that hug well-defined thighs, and a white tee and a flannel shirt rolled up over muscular forearms.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
My gaze snaps up to his face, and my cheeks heat. Did he catch me checking him out? Why the fuck am I even looking at him? Must be a stress response. I scan the front of the diner.
“Marci, do you need me to call medical?”
It occurs to me that he’s called me by my name, and that irritates me even more.
“I told you, Taylor, I’m fine.”
“Fuck.” He gets up and walks toward the front door. “Fuck. I wish I was in my squad tonight. I came around the corner as the fucking car sped off. I didn’t get a chance to memorize the plates. I?—”
“Memorize them?”
Why was he even in the area? It wasn’t like Main Street was that close to Longhorn’s, Jesse’s usual hang-out spot.
“What are you even doing here?”
“I told you. Walking home. And what the fuck does that matter?” he asks.
It doesn’t. I take another sip of the water, already feeling heaps better. The shock got to me, as much as I hate to admit it, but it’s because of the diner. This place is sacred to me. It’s not my home, it’s an integral part of who I am, and somebody trashed it.
“Where’s your phone?” Jesse spots it on the ground and reaches for it.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m calling this in, of course.”
“What?”
I set the water aside and get up, rising to my knees in front of him first, then stopping.
Jesse looks down at me and swallows, his throat working.
“Give me my phone,” I say, getting to my feet and extending my hand.
“I’m calling the cops. You need to sit down.”
“No,” I say. “I’m not going to sit down, and you are not going to call the cops.”
