Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Running a diner is a lot different from just running tables, I’ve discovered. It probably would be okay if all I had to do was orchestrate and manage, but one of Central’s longtime waitresses, who was incredibly happy to be returning, had to call out because of the flu, so I’m standing in.
“Penny!” Johnny shouts. “I’m almost out of salt. I need a refill.”
“Shit,” I mutter, setting down the pile of menus I just collected and running for the supply room in the back. I grab the large canister and run it to Johnny, who grunts his thanks. My hair’s escaping my ponytail in annoying fringes and my arm aches from pouring coffee.
The doorbell jingles and in comes Floyd, Whynot’s most enthusiastic source of unsolicited wisdom. He plunks himself at the counter, beard ready to catch any crumbs that might miss his mouth.
“Morning,” he says, eyeballing me up and down. “You look like you’ve been wrestling a waffle iron.”
“Just living my best life,” I reply, sliding an empty cup before him and filling it with brew.
He squints into the mug. “If you’da added a splash of bourbon to that coffee, I’d call it a balanced breakfast.”
“Noted. I’ll get right on bootlegging,” I say. “Want the usual?”
Now, it’s been over six years since I’ve worked here regularly. I first started waiting tables for Aunt Muriel when I was fourteen and continued through college, but once I made that break to DC, I’ve only been back for the occasional meal in here.
But Floyd is a Whynot treasure—antique, really—and in all the times I’ve served him, he never ordered anything different.
“Yup,” he says, adding cream to his coffee.
I scribble down shorthand notes for three eggs over easy, hash browns, bacon crisp and whole wheat toast. I whip toward the ticket carousel hanging above the pass-through and clip it in for Johnny.
Two stools down, Pap flicks a look in Floyd’s direction. “Bourbon for breakfast. Lord save us.”
I grin at him. “More coffee, Pap?”
His gaze comes back to me. “As long as it’s black enough to scare the devil.”
I pour the refill. “How was your breakfast?”
He takes one sip and levels a look at me. “It hit the spot, although I noticed you upped the price of biscuits by two cents.”
“Inflation,” I shoot back. “You can take it up with the Federal Reserve.”
He harrumphs but I see the twinkle in his expression. “I fought for this country.”
“Then consider it your patriotic duty to pay more,” I tell him sweetly.
My bestie Larkin sits next to her identical twin, Laken, who sits to the right of Pap. The ladies have twin halos of luxurious chocolate-brown hair, arresting hazel eyes and matching grins.
“Pap’s feisty this morning,” Laken observes as I top off their javas.
“Your grandpa is a teddy bear,” I counter, cutting to Pap, who ignores the comment. Which… pretty sure no one has ever referred to the retired Marine as a fluffy stuffed toy before.
Larkin snorts and the twins share a laugh at Pap’s expense, but I’m already spinning off to the next table, where Mary-Margaret Quinn sits wearing her broad-brimmed hat and rings on every finger.
“Penny, darling,” she calls, “if you’d let me bring in one of my antique mirrors, this space could really shine. It’ll open up the room—and reflect all our sins at the same time.”
“Appreciate it, Mary-Margaret,” I reply, picking up three plates from a nearby table and balancing them on one arm, “but I think Whynot’s got enough mirrors for that.”
She giggles like a young girl and I grin back at her.
The café hums like a hive, full of laughter, clinking mugs, and the hiss of Johnny’s griddle. It’s pure craziness, but the good kind—loud, alive and entirely unpredictable.
Johnny’s laugh booms from the kitchen. “Penny, you got a second?”
I dodge around Pap’s stool and walk through the double doors to the kitchen, dropping the plates with a clatter in one of the large industrial sinks. Johnny Clemons—forty-something, red-faced, and built like a linebacker who never stopped bulking up—is wearing an apron that reads Kiss the Cook—But Not If You Value Your Life. His grin could light up a power outage.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Order for Eli Hart’s ready,” he says, handing me a brown paper bag that has a Styrofoam container inside. “Called it in half an hour ago—honey-biscuit sandwich with bacon. Told him I’d have it hot when he got here.”
“Got it.” I wipe my palms on my apron and accept the order.
I head back into the dining area just as Eli walks in.
It goes quiet and I swear, even the bacon stops sizzling.
My breath catches just a little as the owner of Hart Apiaries strides in. Eli’s in his mid-thirties, devastatingly gorgeous with near-black hair, blue eyes sharp as a Carolina sky after a storm, jeans faded just right, and a plain gray T-shirt that looks sinful on a man who clearly knows manual labor. I swear the air pressure shifts just from his presence.