Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 61723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 309(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 309(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
I stop a few steps from the counter. “Morning.”
She blinks. “Hello Tucker.” Her voice is softer than it was last night. Still steady though.
“That seat taken?” I ask, nodding toward the stool at the counter.
She hesitates. Then shakes her head. “No.”
I sit. The old men beside me glance back and forth between us with open curiosity. Lucy grabs a coffee pot and walks over.
“You drink coffee?”
“Yeah.” She pours a cup and slides it toward me. Our fingers brush briefly.
Warm.
She clears her throat. “Thanks again. For last night.”
I shrug. “Anyone would’ve done it.”
One of the old men beside me snorts loudly. Lucy shoots him a look. He pretends to study his eggs. I hide a smile behind my coffee cup.
She leans slightly on the counter. “You didn’t have to.”
“Didn’t mind.” Her gaze flicks to my knuckles. They’re still a little swollen. I glance down. “He hit the table harder than I did my hand. He’s feeling it today.”
That makes her laugh softly. The sound settles something restless in my chest.
“You come in here often?” she asks. “I’ve only worked here a few months, haven’t seen you before. But maybe I just didn’t notice.”
“Sometimes.”
“Just breakfast?”
“Needed a part from across the street at Ironside.”
She nods like that explains everything. Silence settles for a moment. Not awkward. Just present.
Then she asks carefully, “So, uh, Mellow? How did that name come about?”
I sigh. “Don’t start.”
Her eyes sparkle slightly. “I was just curious. Is it because you’re the calm one?”
“Because I’m not.” I tell her the hard truth.
She studies me for a second. I wait for her to be afraid. I wait for her to run away.
Except she doesn’t. No, she smiles again. “I figured.”
And for the first time since last night, Lucy Coe doesn’t look scared of life at all. And that eases something inside me I can’t explain.
FIVE
LUCY
The thing about small towns is that silence is never really what it seems. It might look quiet—just a couple old men eating eggs at the counter and the low hum of the coffee machine—but underneath it there’s always curiosity humming like electricity.
And right now every single person in Freedom Falls Diner is pretending they’re not watching me talk to Tucker Bostic. Or, apparently, Mellow as they all know him.
The diner is like a step back in time, vinyl covered bench seats for booth tables, a bar eating area with stools, and the checkered flooring all as if nineteen fifties came back alive, or never died depending on how you want to view it.
I pour more coffee into his cup even though it’s still half full. Busy hands. That’s always been my trick when I’m nervous. “So,” I say, trying to sound normal. “You work at the shipyard?”
His dark eyes lift from the coffee. “Sometimes.”
“That’s helpful.” I have no idea what I’m saying or what he even does at the shipyard. Obviously, it takes man power to run a shipyard, but what kind of jobs are actually needed or available, I have no idea.
A corner of his mouth twitches. “I work wherever the club needs me.”
There it is again. The reminder. Motorcycle club. Dangerous men. The Kings of Anarchy. Still, he’s sitting here drinking coffee like a normal guy at nine in the morning. Not exactly the image people imagine when they talk about bikers.
“What can I get you?” I ask.
He glances at the menu but barely looks at it. “Whatever’s easiest.”
“That’s not how ordering works.” I counter back.
“Then surprise me.”
I stare at him. “You trust diner food that much?”
“I trust you not to poison me.”
The old man beside him chuckles. “That’s a bold assumption, son.”
Tucker doesn’t even glance at him. “I’m feeling optimistic today.”
I shake my head and grab my order pad. “Two eggs, bacon, toast.”
“Sounds good.”
“Hash browns?” I ask feeling like taking his order is similar to pulling teeth.
“Sure.”
I scribble it down and head for the kitchen window. “Order up!” I call. Johnny the cook grunts from the grill. “Got it.”
I linger there for a moment, pretending to straighten plates while my brain tries to catch up with what’s happening. Because this feels strange.
Not bad. Just strange.
Men like Tucker don’t usually come into places like this alone. They come in groups. Loud. Commanding attention. But he’s just sitting there quietly drinking coffee like he belongs. When I turn back toward the counter, he’s watching the room. Not casually.
Carefully.
Like he’s cataloging everything.
The exits.
The people.
The man two stools down who keeps glancing at his cut. The older couple in the booth whispering behind their menus. It’s subtle.
But I notice. And suddenly I understand something about him.
Men like Tucker don’t just exist in a room.
They control it.
I walk back over with the coffee pot. “You always sit facing the door?”
His gaze flicks up. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Habit.”
“Military?”
He shakes his head. “Army years ago.”
I wait. He doesn’t elaborate. Fair enough. We aren’t friends. We aren’t even acquaintances so no need for him to explain more.