The dinner's warm hum seems to fade, replaced by the pounding of my pulse in my ears. He's here. The arrogant stranger from the café is standing in the doorway like he's stepping off the pages of a magazine.
For a split second, I think about ducking behind the counter. ridiculous. He's already seen me; his dark eyes lock onto mine, and there's no mistake about the flicker of recognition.
What is he doing here? Did he follow me? Does he know who I am?
"Small world," he says, striding towards the counter like he owns the place.
My stomach twists. I'm not sure if it's anger, embarrassment, or some horrible mix of both, but I don't have time to dwell on it. He's already at the counter, leaning slightly against it as if we're old friends.
"What are you doing here?" I ask, my voice sharper than I intended.
He raises an eyebrow, obviously enjoying my misery. "Dinner, definitely. Unless you're saying this place doesn't meet my standards?"
I glare at him, but before I can answer, Harris emerges from the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron.
"Have a seat anywhere," Harris adds, indicating the unoccupied booths.
The man does not move. He keeps his gaze on me, his sneer softening into something almost interested.
"Actually," he replies, "I think I'll sit at the counter."
Great. Just my luck.
I grab the menu and slap it before him, refusing to meet his gaze. "Order quick. We close in an hour."
He chuckles softly, and I swear the sound is more irritating than nails on a chalkboard.
I force my hands to stay steady as I grip the coffee pot. I don't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he's rattled me. But the way he looks completely out of place in his expensive suit sends my nerves into overdrive.
The tension crackles between us like static as he picks up the menu, scanning it with a faint smirk. his confidence is maddening.
"I'll take the steak and eggs," he finally says, slowly placing the menu down. "And a coffee." Black."
I jot down his order while avoiding eye contact. He does not say thank you. Instead, he looks at me with that aggravating attitude of superiority as I pour his coffee, the slight clink of the mug against the counter echoing in the silence between us.
"Are you always this pleasant?" I inquire, my tone firm, as I lid the coffee pot and turn away.
"Only when I'm in good company," he says, his grin quirking up.
I grit my teeth, determined not to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. I busy myself by wiping down the counter, but his presence feels like a spotlight burning into my back.
"Everything all right here?" Harris emerges again from the kitchen, glancing between us with a bemused expression.
"Perfect." The man says smoothly, raising his coffee in a mock toast.
Harris shrugs, plainly uninterested in the underlying tensions, and returns to the kitchen. I wish I could just follow him.
"Why are you really here?" I ask, turning to face him, my voice quiet but firm.
"Would you believe me if I said it's a coincidence?" He takes a sip of his coffee and keeps his attention fixed on me.
"No."
His smirk returns, but there's something else as well—a flash of something I can't quite place. "Fair enough. "Let's call it curiosity."
"Curiosity," I repeat as I cross my arms. "About what?"
"About you." He leans forwards slightly, laying his forearms on the countertop. "You walked out on me earlier." "People don't usually do that."
"And that gives you the right to act like an entitled brat?"
His sneer falters for a split second, and I enjoy the brief expression of disbelief on his face. Good. He earned it.
"Entitled brat?" he asks, leaning back with a mockingly thoughtful grin. "Interesting choice of words."
"You're not denying it," I emphasize, folding my arms closer across my chest.
He shrugs, a sloppy yet intentional action. "Why bother?" You've already made up your mind about me."
He looks at me for a long time, his smirk withering completely. His stare sharpens, piercing through the armor-like facade of casual confidence he had been wearing. For a moment, I notice something else: a suggestion of vulnerability? No. That cannot be correct.
"You're different," he whispers softly, almost to himself.
"What's that supposed to mean?" My tone is cautious and defensive. I'm not sure I like where this is headed.
"It means," he says, his voice losing some of its harshness, "you're not like anyone I've ever met before."
I roll my eyes, unwilling to be swayed by what is likely just another line. "Wow. What an original idea. Let me guess—you believe that'll help me forget how annoying you are?"
"I'm not trying to charm you," he replies, his tone turning serious. "I'm just curious." You walked out on me earlier, and now you're working in a place like this. "It is not what I expected."
I raise an eyebrow. "What exactly did you expect?"
"Not this," he concedes, pointing vaguely around the diner. "Not… you."
Something in his speech makes me pause—a curious blend of perplexity and earnestness that contradicts the image he portrays. But I'm not going to let down my guard. Not yet.
"Well," I continue, forcing my voice to remain steady, "I'm sorry to disappoint. But if you're hoping for a great answer, you won't find one.
He tilts his head and looks at me with the same irritated intensity. "Fair enough. But, if it helps, I believe I like this version of you better."
My stomach turns, and I despise the fact that his comments have any effect on me. I refuse to let him see it.
"Enjoy your steak and eggs," I reply coldly, turning away before he can react.
But when I go on to another table, I notice his eyes lingering, and for reasons I can't understand, it makes me uneasy. This man is trouble—I can feel it in my bones. And yet, a part of me can't help but wonder what he sees when he stares at me like that.