Page 39 of Redline
I grabbed a stack of menus and pivoted toward the floor, but as I got within ten feet, the air left the room.
Dominic was there.
He sat dead center in the booth, staring at the tv in the corner like it held the secrets to the universe. He looked solitary, almost hauntingly so, and for a heartbeat, my feet stuttered. My brain simply went:Nope.
I didn't pause. I didn't even break my stride as I detoured, walking straight past the booth and through the swinging back doors into the kitchen.
The intensity of the line hit me, a wall of shouting cooks and sizzling metal. I stood there for five seconds, staring at a bin of industrial-sized pickles, and scoffed at myself.Really, Carter?I wasn’t about to hide in the back like a coward. I didn't like the guy. So what if we kissed? People kissed all the time. It didn't mean he owned the air I breathed or the floor I walked on. To hide was to give him credit he hadn't earned. I straightened my T-shirt, wiped my palms, and shoved the doors back open.
I was fine. I was indifferent. I was a professional—and professionals didn't let a lingering taste of something bitter and a string of bad decisions distract them from a dinner rush.
But as I stepped back onto the floor, the bell above the door gave a cheerful, mocking chime.
Sienna drifted in, a splash of silk and perfume that had no business being in a place where the primary scent was industrial floor cleaner. She didn't even look at the "Wait to be Seated" sign; she walked straight to Dominic’s booth and slid in beside him. Not across. Beside. Like she was pinning him to the vinyl.
My stomach did a weird, sharp flip—indigestion, surely. I didn’t care if he’d invited her or if she’d tracked his socials. It just felt like a personal insult to my workplace safety.
I grabbed my notebook and walked over with the slow, rhythmic stride of someone approaching a table of toddlers.
"Carter," Dominic said. His voice was that same low-frequency vibration that had been humming against my own skin hours ago. I chose to treat it like a background noise, like the hum of the refrigerator.
"That’s me," I said, clicking my pen. I didn't look at him. I looked at Sienna, who was currently examining her reflection in a spoon with an expression of deep tragedy. "Can I help you with something, or are we just practicing our brooding for the local theater?"
Sienna’s eyes flicked to me, narrowing as she took in my apron and the smudge of leftover ketchup on my forearm. She didn't reach for the menu.
"Do you have anything that’s organic, keto-friendly, and hasn't been within ten feet of a deep fryer?" she asked, her voice like honey-coated sandpaper.
I didn't even blink. "Water."
Sienna paused, her lip curling. "And for a main?"
"Ice," I replied flatly. "I can have the chef crack the cubes if you’re worried about the calories involved in chewing."
A sound came from Dominic. It wasn't a laugh—he didn't do anything as loud as a laugh— but his expression softened by a hair, and the corner of his mouth hitched up just a fraction ofa millimeter. He was looking at his menu, but he was definitely enjoying the show.
Sienna didn't see the smile, but she felt the shift. She popped open a tube of lipstick, the click echoing in the booth. "He’s a little distracted tonight, aren't you, Dom? He barely heard a word I said in the car."
"Maybe it was the acoustics," I offered, finally meeting Dominic’s gaze. My eyes were bored, empty, and entirely lying through their teeth. "Sometimes the more expensive the car, the harder it is to hear the important stuff."
Dominic’s eyes sharpened. The smile vanished, replaced by that dark, alert intensity. The air between us felt suddenly pressurized, thick with the memory of that room on campus.
"I heard everything," Dominic said softly. He wasn't talking to Sienna.
"Great. Then you heard the part where the specials are on the board," I said, my voice rising into a fake, sugary pitch that felt like a slap. "I’ll give you two a minute. Or ten. Take your time—occupancy is free, though the dignity is extra."
I turned on my heel before I could see if that second comment earned another crack in his stone-faced composure. My heart was hammering, but my hands?
My hands were steady. Mostly.
I turned to leave, but the crowd at the door parted and a burst of genuine, easy energy cut through the thick smell of the fryer.
Luka.
Where Dominic was a dark corner of a room, Luka was the open window. He moved through the diner with a loose, athletic grace, nodding to a regular and dodging a tray-laden Gary without breaking stride. When his eyes caught mine, he didn't look like he was analyzing my soul—he just looked happy to be there.
"Hey!" he called out, heading toward the counter.
I felt a wave of relief. This was what I needed. Not more heavy silences or lips that felt like a challenge, but someone who spoke a language I actually understood. "Luka," I said, meeting him halfway. I leaned against the bar counter, finally feeling my shoulders drop an inch. "Please tell me you’re here to order the most expensive thing on the menu and tip me in gold bars."
