Page 8 of True Ruin

Verna Mae Pickens, the Grill’s owner, barked something at the short-order cook, then ambled Gabi’s way. Her gaze slid to the back booth, her grin turning sly. “Got a crush, hon?” she whispered, hooking an arm through Gabi’s and drawing her farther inside as the door swished shut behind them. “Won’t be the first hanging around like a cat in heat today. I’ve had a steady stream coming in since they spotted him back there. Even that old snip Myra Jenkins, eighty if she’s a day.”

Verna Mae called everyone hon, but didn’t mean it unless she trusted you, which was rare. She was loud, twice divorced, and terrifyingly good at judging character, running the town’s gossip network like a benevolent tyrant. Gabi had worked for her off and on since losing her mother during junior year and thought of Verna Mae as an aunt.

Shifting the tray in her arms, Gabi followed her behind the counter. “Nope,” she said, thinking,I have a huge crush.

And after years of going through the motions, this felt pretty fucking wonderful.

“He picked the spot where the best people sit,” Verna Mae stated in a tone that brooked no argument, flicking her gaze toward Dallas. “The others come for pancakes and chatter—the finest to be had for miles, I’ll admit—and I cash in on both. You’ll have your own regulars soon enough, a different breed entirely, of course. Half my fun is figuring out what makes them tick.”

Without needing to be told, Gabi arranged the muffins beneath the pastry dome in the most appealing stack she could manage. She’d baked them at five a.m., and they were her tastiest batch yet. After a hundred tries, she’d finally found the perfect balance of lemon zest, vanilla, and cinnamon. “I hope you don’t think I’m trying to steal your customers for Wilder Grounds. I love this place almost as much as I know I’ll love my own.”

Verna Mae snorted loud enough to make Rico, the short-order cook who’d been with the Grill for at least twenty years, flinch. “My people aren’t your people, hon. I get farmers, mechanics, retirees, and the Rotary Club after their weekly meetings. You’re gonna get the laptop crowd, teenagers with cash, and lawyers who pretend they like scones better than biscuits.” She gave Gabi’s elbow a squeeze. “Promise has room for both of us. And you’re building something different. Upmarket. Professional. Folks who want your kind of place aren’t looking for mine.”

She leaned in, her voice dropping. “Now that I think on it, maybe a handsome man in the lonesome booth is good for business. Because anyone looking at him”—she tipped her chin toward the back of the diner—“isn’t registering what’s on their plate. On days like these, I can let Rico experiment. Eggs with frills, he calls them.”

Gabi opened her mouth to argue—but what? Dallas Truewashandsome. And she did hope to draw an upmarket crowd to Wilder Grounds. She wasn’t trying to tear down anything Promise already had. She wanted to add to it. A rising tide lifted all boats, right? Part of her strategy was to feature work by local artisans, arrange small exhibitions, and even host live music by homegrown talent now and then. Justin—Dallas’s brother and an old friend from high school—owned the local gallery and had promised to help.

She had big plans. And for the first time, she believed she might pull them off.

Verna Mae gave her a little shove and a wink, the combination landing somewhere between encouragement and command. “The customer in the lonesome booth needs a refill.”

Gabi shook her head, delighted nerves spinning through her. “Verna, I don’t waitress anymore.”

“Mm-hm,” Verna Mae drawled, already reaching for a fresh pot. At the last minute, she grabbed a plate and added a muffin. “And I’m not twice divorced with a bum knee and a staffing shortage.” She pressed both into Gabi’s hands. “Life’s full of lies we tell ourselves. Go on. He looks parched.”

Gabi stared at the coffeepot and the muffin, then at Dallas, still hunched over his notebook, unaware his morning was about to get complicated. As she threaded her way down the diner’s narrow aisle, across patches of yellow linoleum worn nearly bare, she practiced what she’d say.

Need a refill?

I baked these this morning.

How are those crutches working for you?

Long time since that kiss, huh?

But he made it easy. Or harder. The red vinyl creaked beneath him as Dallas glanced up, his hesitation too brief toread, before sliding his cup to the table’s edge with a faint tilt of his mouth.

Gabi poured, thrilled her hand didn’t shake, sorting details the way she would flavors in a new recipe. One scuffed Dr. Martens boot planted wide, crutches parked within reach, eyes bright green behind the glasses she’d have teased him about—probably unkindly—when they were teenagers.

He endured her inspection, and she noticed his eyelashes were a shade lighter at the tips. Oddly charming.Damn.

“Is that mine?” He nodded toward the plate Gabi held against her chest. “Verna Mae’s way of telling me to order more or give up the booth?”

“Oh.” Gabi set the muffin on the table with more enthusiasm than finesse. “Yes, she’s, um…” She hesitated. She’d never been much of an off-the-cuff liar. “Verna’s considering a weekly order, so I brought a batch as a test run. No charge, she said.”

Which was convincing only because he didn’t know Verna Mae had been buying Gabi’s pastries for two years.

Dallas grabbed the muffin and brought it to his nose. “Blueberry,” he murmured. His rolled-up shirtsleeves exposed muscled forearms, the edge of a tattoo peeking from beneath the cuff.

Antsy, Gabi hummed under her breath, like an artist showing her first painting to a gallery owner.

He devoured half the muffin in one enthusiastic bite, his lids lowering in pleasure. Possibly the sexiest thing she’d ever seen. “Holyhell.” His eyes found hers, the hazel rings around his pupils another tantalizing discovery. “You made these?”

Gabi rocked onto the toes of her white Keds, pinning one hand at her side to keep from twisting a length of hair around her finger, a tell she knew she had. “I’m starting a new business. You saw the Wilder Grounds truck the other night at the festival. It’s a temporary fix until my space is ready at Campbell’s mill.Bakery and coffee, nothing like the menu here. More of a caffeine-and-work kind of place?—”

Her cheeks heated, and she halted while he chewed, because his amusement had intensified with every word she spilled. She flattened her hand over her belly, slightly reassured when his gaze dropped and his smile dimmed. “I babble when I’m nervous.”

Tilting his head, his glasses winking in the light, he polished off the muffin. “Why would you be nervous, Sparkle?” he asked, brushing crumbs from his hands.