Chapter 1
Chapter One
I t’s pretty much dead inside Jack’s tonight. There’s the old couple—the Denizens—in the corner booth, and two guys at the end of the counter who just got off from their shift at the prison. And me—the only seventeen-year-old in this town who isn’t celebrating the last week of summer—because her mom insists she works a summer job.
“It builds character.” She used those exact words. I think they were plucked straight from a parenting book Grammy gave her.
Know what builds character? Being the daughter of a retired NFL quarterback who found his second calling as the new head coach—at my high school. I’m filled to the brim with character. I ooze it. And it’s not that I’m against working. I don’t take our fortune for granted one bit. I lived through the sacrifices that came with it, like all the times my mom’s stoic features cracked into painful shards when my dad was flattened on his back and taken off the field on a cart.
I know more about brain scans than a normal teenager should. I get the risks that come along with competitive sports. I have nightmares about them thanks to the loss of my uncle Trig, whose brain was so badly injured from his years on the gridiron that it started to lie to him.
As hokey as the sentiment sounds, I believe working as a server at Jack’s Pancake House does teach me valuable lessons. I just didn’t want to have to learn them this summer— this week , at the very least.
My phone buzzes by the register with more notifications. I shouldn’t look, but the pull to see what everyone else is doing while I’m here is too strong. Social media is the devil, luring people in and twisting their minds with its bag of negative tricks. I wonder how I’ll feel when I look this time—jealous or excluded? Perhaps both.
It’s a short video of Lexi and Tasha jumping from some jagged rocks into the pooled water at the springs. My mom would hate it. It looks so fun, though. It’s still light out in the video, so they’re probably catching up on their posts now at the campsite. Half of our senior class is there, baking in the desert sun all day then cooling off in the clear water of the springs. It’s a two-hour drive from Jack’s. If I left right now, I could maybe make it there in time to join the party before everyone passes out for the night.
Of course, I won’t. Because I have to open tomorrow. At least the breakfast shift earns great tips.
I turn my screen off and flip my phone over, avoiding the other posts begging to taunt me. The soft ding sounds over my shoulder, alerting me of a new customer walking through the main door. My hand automatically grabs a couple of menus from underneath the counter as I turn around. The first thing I’m struck by are his dark blue eyes. Not far behind is the chin-length wavy brown hair that he’s running his hand through before placing the gray ball cap back on his head. He’s wearing a plain white T-shirt and fitted jeans. He's alone, and he’s . . . young. As in not a prison worker in his forties or a senior citizen taking advantage of the specials. He’s my age, I’m guessing, and I don’t recognize him.
His gaze latches on to mine as he approaches and takes the stool directly across the counter from me. I hand him two menus, my brain not quite catching up.
“Welcome to Jack’s,” I say, my pulse racing more than it should. I’m acting like I’ve never seen a cute boy before. In my life. Let alone the fact I’m sort of dating a very cute boy right now. Kind of. We might be on a break. Or maybe we’re done this time. I don’t know what our status is exactly, but I do know that Bryce does not have hair like this guy. And he’s shorter. And he’s leaving next year. Not that this guy is staying. Or even part of the picture.
Stop it, Peyton!
“Are these . . . different?” He’s holding both menus side-by-side, his eyes scanning to compare them. I snag one and return it to the stack behind me.
“No, sorry about that. I’m used to people coming in here in pairs. Would you like some coffee?” I turn over the mug that’s placed on the napkin in front of him and reach toward the coffee pot. He stares at the mug and scrunches one side of his face.
“You don’t have to say yes, you know.”
His features relax, and he lets out a short, breathy laugh.
“Yeah, sorry. No, I hate coffee. I’ll take a water.” His gaze hits mine again, and it feels like a punch in the heart. There’s something familiar in his eyes, though I’m certain we don’t know each other.
I fill a glass with ice water and set it in place of the coffee mug, then toss a straw down next to it.
“I have to warn you, it’s a paper straw. You have about two minutes to drink before it turns into a spitball.”
He chuckles and flicks the wrapped straw toward me before picking up the glass and drinking.
“Need a minute with the menu?” I glance from the stranger toward the kitchen window. It’s empty and quiet. Neil, the evening cook, is probably sitting in the back placing online bets on sports. Neil’s home for the summer from college and his family owns this place. He’s been working at Jack’s since it opened my freshman year of high school.
“What’s good here . . . Peyton?” I snap back to face my new friend, catching him sitting up high and leaning over the counter to get a clear view of my name badge. I smirk, the pull of flirting hard to resist.
“You like pancakes?” I lean on my elbow on the counter and lift a brow. “It’s kind of our thing. I’m not big on fruit, but people say the pineapple ones are really good.”
He sucks in his bottom lip, still somehow smiling through it. Not a big smile, though. More of a private one. Like he has a secret. I’m in trouble.
His eyes flit up from the menu to meet mine from under his dark lashes.
“What do you like?”
I swallow slowly and tuck the inside of my cheek between my teeth for a beat. I can do this.
“I’m kind of old school. I like the plain ones with maple syrup and a ton of butter.”
He nods and pushes the menu toward me.
“Well, all right, then.” He winks.
Who winks? And why do I like it?
“Coming right up,” I say as I tap the edge of the menu on the countertop. That is a phrase I have never said. Not once. Ever. And Neil, who was not far enough away from the window when I uttered it, is quick to poke fun of me the second I push through the kitchen door.
“And would you like anything . . . on the side? ” He pretends to fluff his hair as he does an impression of what I think is supposed to be me. I shove the ticket flat against the center of his chest and he coughs out a laugh.
“What? It’s cute to see you get all flustered. It’s rare to see you off your game,” he teases.
“I’m not flustered. Just, he wants pancakes. Shouldn’t you—” I flit my hand toward the griddle, but he’s still busy laughing at me.
“Is that why you came all the way in here instead of hanging the ticket on the clip and ringing the bell?” He quirks a brow. I flit my hand toward the griddle again, then turn my back to him.
“I came in here because we’re out of coffee filters up front,” I throw over my shoulder. It’s a lie, but Neil doesn’t leave the kitchen. He has no idea where the coffee filters are. Hell, he might not even know what they are.
I get to the back where the stock of paper supplies is piled neatly in boxes, all labeled. I pat my back pocket in search of my phone so I can text for advice as I sink against the wall of cardboard. Shit. I left it by the register. Not that I’d know what to say to my best friends. Or that I really want to scroll through more of their fun while I’m stuck here “building character.” But the need for a distraction right this second is making me itchy. Which means . . . I’d probably end up texting Bryce. Comfortable, familiar Bryce.
This is how we always end up back together. He goes away for some quarterback camp or college visit, and the reality of things hits me, so I tell him we should take a break. Sometimes he’s the one to suggest it, like this time. He’s been gone the entire summer. And I haven’t really missed him , per se. But I have missed his company.
Maybe I’ve simply missed company, period.
I have no desire to follow Bryce to college. I don’t really care much for any of the places he’s looking to play. To be honest, sometimes I feel as though I go out with him to make my dad happy, which is hilarious considering my father wanted to throttle him the first time they met. He sure loves him now, though. The great Reed Johnson has two daughters. I think Bryce is the surrogate son he never had. He definitely plays like my father.
Glancing up, I spot the open box of coffee filters and grab a fresh stack to carry back as my excuse. I don’t make eye contact with Neil as I pass by, but I swear I feel him smirking at me.
My new friend’s eyes dart up from his phone screen when I enter the dining room, and his mouth ticks up on one side like he overheard me and Neil a minute ago. Maybe I’m projecting. Either way, the heat is taking over my neck and cheeks. I wish I wasn’t wearing an apron over this Kelly green polo shirt. I could not possibly be wearing a less flattering color.
“You should check your phone,” he says. I glance at him over my shoulder as he points toward the register. “It was buzzing like crazy while you were gone.”
I nod with a soft smile.
“Thanks.”
I tuck the filters on top of the stack that already exists, then snag my phone to see what excitement I’m missing. There are a dozen more notifications, which I skip because I’m sure they’re more posts of my friends having a great time without me. But then there’s the missed call from Bryce. My thumb hovers over his name for a second but instead moves to check my voicemail. He didn’t leave a message, but why would he? We aren’t together. His choice this time. Maybe it was mutual. I don’t even know anymore.
The sharp ping of the bell makes me jump a little, so I shove my phone in my back pocket and move to the window where Neil has slid the plate of fresh pancakes. We make eye contact, his smirk still firmly in place, along with a tittering laugh.
“Shut it,” I snap, pinching the air at him as if I’m stapling his lips shut with my fingers. If I could, I think I would.
I plate the dish with a carafe of warm syrup and several fresh pats of butter, then deliver the hotcakes along with a set of silverware to my new friend. Or enemy. Or . . .
“So, are you new here?” I blurt out after letting go of his plate.
His gaze hovers on my face for a few seconds as he twists his plate around, the faint smile never having left. I don’t think it’s dimmed since he walked in.
“Yeah, we just moved in over the weekend—the new development on Canyon Road. We were waiting for the build to get done. It should have been ready three months ago.” He drops his attention to his food, soaking the cakes in syrup then dropping slices of butter in various spots. I’m internally amused because it’s exactly the way I go at these things when I’m hungry.
“You’ll be going to the new school, then, huh?” I lean against the counter again, trying to find the comfort I barely grasped before. He takes a massive bite and nods as he looks up at me.
“Too bad. I can’t give you any tips.” I shrug and do my best to ignore the sudden drop in serotonin as my stomach tightens. Yeah, yeah, so I wanted him to go to Coolidge High. It’s fine. Whatever. So, fine. Why should I care?
“All high schools are basically the same, though, aren’t they?” he says, quickly stuffing more pancake into his mouth.
We both laugh softly.
“I guess so,” I say. Though, I’m not sure my high school experience has ever truly been typical. This place still has a small-town vibe, but growth is swallowing it up. And it’s impossible to escape my dad’s legacy, especially now. I do my best to focus on my cheer competitions and the stunt team. And when I’m not working, I try to appreciate the real friendships I’ve made. Lexi and Tasha don’t care that my family owns half the land within the town limits, or that my dad is on ESPN every other week. Don’t get me wrong, they love the perks that come along with our ranch and our vacations, but it’s not why we’re friends. Bryce, however? I don’t know. I’ve never felt like it was something real between us. Even when he was trying hard to be everything I thought I wanted him to be. The letters, which he hasn’t written since last summer, feel forced when I look back on them now.
The chime for the entrance breaks me out of my thoughts, and it takes my mind a few extra seconds to realize it’s Bryce walking through the door. My new friend spins his stool halfway around to follow my gaze, probably because my eyes have popped out.
“Fuck, seriously?” he mutters, his voice low but loud enough that I catch his words. My mind swirls a million miles per second trying to make sense of them.
“Hey, you are here!” Bryce steps behind the counter with open arms that I fall into—mostly out of habit, partly out of panic.
“You’re home early,” I say, inching my palms between us so I can push against his chest enough to break our hold.
“I am,” he says, leaning his head to the side, his green eyes all sorts of suspicious. He’s so used to me just falling back into our routine. Maybe I’m used to it, too. I scratch nervously at the back of my neck as Bryce pivots his gaze toward my new friend.
“Oh, shit! What are the odds?” Bryce crosses his arms over his chest and takes a half step back, his eyelids heavy and his stare sharp and full of contempt.
I glance at the new guy as he chuckles under his breath for a second before stuffing one last bite in his mouth. Leaning to one side, he pulls his wallet from his pocket and fishes out a twenty that he drops on the counter.
“Peyton,” he says with a nod as he gets to his feet. I don’t even know his name, so all I can do is suck in my lips and lift my brow. I’m pretty sure I don’t want the two of them filling me in on how they know each other. The vibe is chilly enough as it is.
“Good call on the plain ones. Delicious,” he says as his eyes meet mine. He makes the chef’s kiss gesture then shifts his focus to Bryce. And for the first time since he walked in, his smile drops completely.
I busy myself clearing his plate as he leaves the restaurant.
“You friends with that guy? Or are you?—”
I sense that possessive, jealous tone and decide to nip it right out of the gate.
“Stop it, Bryce. He just came in for the first time tonight. He read my name badge. I have no idea who the hell he is.” I glance to my left while I wipe down the counter space he just vacated and manage to catch him stepping into an older blue pickup.
“Peyt, that’s Wyatt Stone,” he laughs, his tone incredulous. How could I not know all the important quarterbacks in the state by face?
“Really?” I look back to the window just as the pickup’s headlights flicker on and blind my view.
“Uh, yeah. Really,” Bryce says, sliding up to sit on the counter. I roll my eyes at him, and he gets down. The managers hate it when he does that. I hate it when he does that.
“Huh, well, he was nice.” I give Bryce a shrug as I carry the bin of dirty dishes into the back. I feel the heat of his stare on my back, but thankfully, he doesn’t follow me. Neil has moved to the chair by the office and is busy on his phone, thank God.
I might not have recognized his face, but yeah . . . Wyatt Stone. I know the name. It’s been plastered on my dad’s scouting board in his office at school for the last two years. And when he got word that Wyatt’s family was moving to Vista High’s boundaries last spring, my dad started uttering his name a lot more—at the dinner table, during family vacations, in the car everywhere we went.
So that’s Wyatt Stone. The guy getting half of my dad’s starting offense thanks to strict district boundaries and a statewide crackdown on illegal recruiting.
Bryce has helped himself to a Coke by the time I return to the counter area, and he’s sitting on Wyatt’s stool.
“You off soon?” he asks before sipping a drink through his paper straw. It makes a slurping sound that sends unpleasant shivers up my spine.
“Thirty minutes. Why?”
I could probably talk Neil into leaving early, but I’m not interested in spending time with Bryce right now.
“Ah, too bad. I’m heading to the springs. Thought maybe you’d like to come with.” He inches his head to one side in invitation. This move usually works. Normally, I’d be waiting for it. Maybe I’ve grown up.
“Yeah, I wish I could. But I open tomorrow too. So . . .” I lift a palm and shrug, then let my hand drop back to my side.
Bryce lets out a sharp but quiet laugh.
“Okay, then. Well, I guess I’ll see you . . . I don’t know. Later?” He eyes me as he pulls the straw from his glass, drops it on the counter I just cleaned, then takes a huge gulp of soda before leaving the half-filled glass for me to clear.
“Yeah. I’ll see you later,” I say, fighting against two years of bad habits and nodding with a smile instead of leaning over the counter to kiss him. He looks . . . shocked. And that makes me feel almost as good as I did when Wyatt winked at me.