Page 7 of Gatsby's Starlet

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“So are you,” she said—and then blinked like she hadn’t meant to.

Heat moved slow under my ribs. “You always analyze people like this?” I asked.

“Only when they rearrange brick walls by emotional significance,” she said, that pretty smile forming. “Also, you fold the towel in thirds instead of halves.”

I went still. “You notice that too?”

“You do it when you’re thinking,” she said, no flirtation, no edge—just fact—and that landed harder than it should have.

“There’s a diner on King Street,” I said after a second, voice rougher without meaning it. “Still has the original jukebox. Chrome trim. Red vinyl booths. Opened in ’59.”

Her eyes lit up. “Is the jukebox functional-functional or decorative-functional?”

“It works.”

“Full song selection?”

“Full.”

“Good,” she said. “I don’t trust silent jukeboxes.”

“Dealbreaker?”

“Absolutely.”

Fuck. She was perfect.

“You busy tomorrow morning?”

She stilled, measured me. “Tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Thought you might appreciate the decor.”

“And the food?”

“Eggs. Bacon. Pancakes bigger than your head.”

“Fluffy or dense?”

I stared at her. “They’re fluffy. Crisp edges.”

She nodded once. “Okay.”

I grabbed a pen, wrote my number on the back of a receipt, and held it out, and when her fingers brushed mine it wasn’t anything dramatic, just warm, but it stayed.

“You’re going to pick me up on a motorcycle,” she said.

“Probably.”

“I’ve never been on one.”

The image hit quick, her dress caught in the wind, pearls at her throat, her arms settling around my waist, and the heat that followed had me uncomfortable in a bar full of people.

“I’ll take it easy.”

“That’s what everyone says before they don’t.”

“I won’t.”

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