Page 10 of Wild Embers
BLAKE
Eyeing Walker in my rearview mirror, I smirk. He’s standing there as the snow clings to his shoulders and the brim of his hat. The cold paints his cheeks red, but the rouge could be from the fact that I didn’t do as he wanted me to.
As usual.
Seeing him, all the feelings I had the day I left came rushing back. I tried to kiss him, and he turned me away. Embarrassed, I exploded and said things I didn’t mean.
I thought distance and time would have helped me build up a tolerance to the man, but that tolerance threw itself into the fire when I laid eyes on Walker again. I wanted to run my hands over his broad shoulders, wrap myself in his thick arms, and bask in the way his eyes see me—truly seeme.
Another glance and Walker’s sharp gaze let me know that he’snothappy. I’d feel bad if he hadn’t handcuffed me like I was some sort of criminal.
I’m always down for a good time, but I imagined Walker using handcuffs for a whole different reason. And arresting me, or detaining me as he likes to call it, is not what I thought wouldhappen when I finally saw him again. In all honesty, I wasn’t ready to see Walker.
Maybe that’s my real reason for not wanting to come clean with him. I’m not actually ready to see any of them.
The men I’ve been head over heels for since I was a child.
Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve been telling myself that it was just a childhood crush and that I’d feel differently when I finally came face-to-face with them again.
But if how I’m feeling right now is any indication, my childhood crush has turned into an adult infatuation.
Sighing, I slouch into my seat.
Oh well.
With my anonymity out the window, I decide I no longer need to stay away from the food establishment that I’ve been dreaming of for the last decade.
Main Street Diner.
Pulling into the parking lot, I find the last available spot and make my way inside. As expected, the place is packed. Martha and Gus McCall’s cooking has never failed to satisfy the masses.
Heat rolls over me the second I step inside. The smell of bacon grease, maple syrup, and fresh coffee wraps around me like a blanket. Every booth is filled with familiar and unfamiliar faces alike, conversations blending beneath the clatter of silverware.
I spot the last available table in the corner, covered in worn laminate. Sitting in the booth, I take a quick glance over the menu and note that not a single item has changed. A group of men dressed in work clothes chatters at the bar, sitting on their mismatched stools. Friends and family occupy the remaining tables, enjoying their meals.
The scent of bacon grease, coffee, and maple syrup hangs in the air. Evergreen Falls High School memorabilia covers one wall beside a collection of framed photographs showcasingrodeo champions and the Rocky Mountains. The vinyl booths have been patched so many times that no two seats are quite the same shade of red.
An oversized mug is set in front of me, and the waitress immediately fills it with coffee. “What can I get you, sweetheart?” she asks without looking in my direction and pulls out a pad and pen for my order.
A smile tugs at the corner of my lips as I peer up at Martha’s heart-shaped face. She looks exactly the same. Expressive eyes, a tender smile, and a button nose. Her style hasn’t changed either. Flannel and denim—a common choice in this town.
It’s about lunchtime, but I have a craving for my favorite. “French toast, extra crispy, and can you put the butter between the slices instead of on top?”
Martha stops scribbling, finally looks at me, and beams. Her hands find my own and pull me from the booth, wrapping me in a warm hug. “Well, I’ll be. Blake Jennings. What’re you doing back here? Last I saw you, you were hightailing it out of dodge.”
Three heads immediately turn.
Small towns never let a secret stay a secret for long.
Martha doesn’t give me time to answer her question as she pulls back and turns her head toward the kitchen. “Gus!”
“What?” a gruff voice shouts back, gaining the attention of a few customers.
“Look who’s here!”
A tall, broad-shouldered man steps out from the kitchen behind the counter, rubbing his hands on a dish towel. His white shirt and light-wash jeans are spotted with grease stains. The smattering of gray hair on the sides of his head is the only indication that time has passed.
His expression brightens, and the corner of his mouth curves upward. “Are my eyes working, or is that Blake Jennings?”
