Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
And there really was no reason to worry about Tory. I might not know everything about him, but I knew for a fact that he was a good person. He was sweet and considerate, and he’d never hurt me. He just wouldn’t.
He was incredibly patient, too. Even after almost two months, we still hadn’t fucked, because I hadn’t felt like I was ready. But he never pressured me. Last time I brought it up, he’d told me, “Please don’t worry about it, Arie. You’ll know when you’re ready. And if you decide you don’t want to take it that far, that’s fine, too. I love what we have, so nothing has to change if you don’t want it to.”
I missed him, so I sent him a text that said: Thinking of you. A video call appeared on my screen less than a minute later. When I answered, Tory smiled and said, “Ciao, bello. I was thinking about you, too.”
“Yeah? What were you thinking about?”
“Your lips. Your eyes. The fact that it’s only Wednesday, and the weekend is very far away.”
“There’s no rule that says we can only see each other on weekends,” I pointed out. “You could come here today if you wanted to. Although it might be boring for you, because I need to be here until closing.”
“Would it really be okay with you if I drove down and hung out at the diner?”
“More than okay. I’d love it.”
“Then text me the diner’s address, and I’ll be there this afternoon.”
I sent the address after we ended the call, and then I got up and wandered out of my office. The breakfast rush had ended, so the cook was keeping busy by restocking the kitchen for lunch service.
In the dining room, Myra was sitting behind the counter reading a gossip magazine. She’d worked here as a waitress for decades, and even though she had to be in her seventies, she refused to retire. She wore her bright red hair in a stiff, puffy helmet, and she was never without her blue eye shadow, which matched the polyester uniform she insisted on, no matter how many times I told her she could wear whatever she wanted.
The only other people in the dining room were Tommy and Chet, two of my regulars. Like Myra, they were probably in their seventies, and both were widowers who met up every single day for breakfast. Then they always lingered for two or three hours, playing backgammon and nursing cups of coffee.
I brewed a fresh pot and brought it to them with two slices of pie. As I refilled their mugs, I said, “I tweaked my cherry pie recipe. Will you try it for me and let me know what you think?”
This charade was a daily occurrence, and if they knew I was lying, they never called me on it. Both of them were too proud to accept handouts, but they struggled to make ends meet, especially toward the end of the month. They also both had a sweet tooth, so I always brought them something from our bakery case. I also made sure Javier and Cami remembered to keep it going on the weekends, now that I wasn’t here every day.
Chet smiled at me before picking up his false teeth and clicking them in place. He kept them in a coffee saucer when he wasn’t eating, because he said they were uncomfortable. “Thanks, Manny,” he said. “I don’t know why you’re always fiddling with this recipe. It’s already perfect.”
“Don’t get me wrong, it’s a damn good pie,” Tommy said. “But I wouldn’t complain if you should happen to find yourself needing an opinion on your peach pie, sometime in the near future.”
I grinned and said, “Noted,” before returning the pot to the coffee maker.
“You’re too nice,” Myra muttered, not looking up from her magazine.
“What do you mean?”
“You know. You give away hundreds of dollars’ worth of free food every month. It’s not just pie, either. You comp meals for a lot of our regulars. And then you do those huge, free buffets on the holidays. But I know you’ve barely gotten this place to turn a profit, even after your bigshot son-in-law invested in the business.”
“We’ve talked about this, Myra.” She brought it up about twice a week.
“Yeah, yeah,” she said, as she turned a page in her magazine. “You’re just gonna say what you always do, leave the money stuff to you, and don’t worry because you’ve got it under control.”
“Exactly.”
I busied myself by wiping down the counter, even though it was perfectly clean. Then I tidied up the bottles of condiments beneath the pass-through before grabbing the broom and sweeping the entire dining room. When I finished, Myra asked, “Why are you so antsy? Did you get a tip-off that the health department is coming for an inspection or something?”