Page 19 of Just Ten Seconds

“You’re right. No man. Ever. No matter how long she’s known him.”

My shoulders vibrate with my silent laugh. “Helicopter parent?”

A deep harrumph grumbles from his throat. “Even when she’s an adult, I’m putting one of those apps on her phone where I can track her every move. Being a single father is no joke.”

“I bet it’s the scariest you’ve ever had.” I look at him.

“It’s also best.”

There’s a tree that has fallen over the path. Dean hops over it with ease and then holds out a hand to help me. I can feel the calluses over the bridge of his palm as I climb up. The heel of my boot wobbles slightly, so he places a tentative hand on my waist as I step down.

It feels like we have a veil of privacy over us, protecting us from the onslaught of society. Their voices, their whispers, their opinions all kept away by the shadows.

The path clears, and we continue in silence. Standing this close to him, I can appreciate his tall frame next to my modest one. He has a good six inches on me, and while I should be wary of walking with a stranger in the dark, I feel the opposite—like he’d protect me, no matter what tried to come our way.

The lights of the diner shine bright as we exit the park. We cross the street, and Dean holds the door open as I step inside the café.

A waitress is quickly at our side with two menus. “Two? This way.”

We follow her to a booth alongside a mirrored wall. Dean lets me take a seat first before sliding into his side.

The place is reminiscent of what the Harvest Café looked like before Nick and Jackie renovated it. Tattered red booths and Formica tables with writing and dents on the top. The ceiling fans are white yet aged with yellow tint, and there’s even an old-school mini jukebox on our table with songs from the eighties.

I take off my coat and lay it next to me. Dean does the same, and I immediately find my eyes drifting to the way his pectoral muscles are accented beneath his simple cotton shirt and the gold medallion that rests against his skin.

“What brought a city girl to the country?” His question startles me out of my stare.

“I didn’t have anything in Manhattan to keep me there.”

He nods understandingly and waits for me to continue.

My hands play with the paper napkin in front of me as I add, “I was underwater emotionally, and Nick had just bought this diner Upstate. Before I knew it, here I was.”

“Nick’s the owner of the café?” he asks. “The guy who said I couldn’t come in with my bleeding daughter?”

“Yes. Sorry about that. It’s complicated. He’s just scared of losing his business.”

“You and Nick are …” he says.

I raise a brow at his comment, and I hold up my hands. “Oh, no. He’s married to my best friend, Jackie. She moved here when she married Nick, and now, we work at the café like one big, happy family.”

Dean leans back in the booth. His hand rubs up against his jean-clad thigh as he assesses my response. I’m sure he’s wondering what the other piece to the puzzle is. There’s always more to the story … any story. This one just happens to have many facets.

“Nick bought the café from his family after his grandfather passed. It hadn’t been updated in thirty-five years. He took out a substantial loan and invested a ton of money into modernizing it. He even revamped the menu. Problem is, he spent more than he’s taking in. He hoped the new look would bring in new business, but it also drove loyal clients away.”

I longingly look off for a moment, thinking of how excited he and Jackie were when they cut the ribbon on the new farmhouse-style dining room. While they appreciate shiplap and a Joanna Gaines style, the rest of town still saw it as a breakfast and lunch shop, a place to get a quick egg, and they didn’t want to pay extra for their high design. The realization hit them pretty hard.

“Anyway, after I moved here, I was in awe of how Nick and Jackie made the café their life. Jackie is incredibly supportive of her husband’s dream, and Nick is just trying to honor his grandfather and create a future for his family. But they were exhausted, so I put on an apron and got to work.”

“Just like that?”

“Everyone has a day job.”

His teeth skim his lower lip. “You’re a good person.”

“Far from it.” I lean back with a heavy sigh. That is the most I’ve spoken to anyone who is not Jackie, Nick, or Rita in three years.

My phone buzzes in my bag. I open it and see Jackie’s smiling face beaming up at me from the screen. I hit the red End button and let it go to voice mail.