Chapter 1

1

PRESENT DAY

Luke

"Dude, shut the fuck up," one of my teammates yells in my direction. I put a hand up to wave cheerfully, and continue whistling.

"They love me," I confide to the high school kid on base next to me. He grins, uncertainly, and steps partially off the base, eyes on the batter.

I keep whistling, eyes on the game and hands tucked into my back pockets. The sun is beating down on the pitch, and the high schoolers all look hot and miserable. When Coach calls an end to practice, there is a collective sigh of relief from everyone. Checking the time, I see that I've got less than an hour to get to work. Jogging over to Coach, I wait impatiently for him to notice me; rocking up and back on my heels, I clear my throat. He glances over at me, sighs, and turns.

"What is it, Kelly?" He asks, in a tone of the long-suffering.

"I was just wondering if I can head out? I've got to be to work by seven." I punctuate this with my best, most winning smile.

"All right, you can go. And thanks for volunteering to help out," he adds begrudgingly, scowling at me.

Grinning, I jog toward the parking lot. It takes two tries to get my car to start—the engine turning over pathetically while I chant encouragement at it. I cheer when it roars to life and pat the dashboard in thanks. The radio doesn't work, so I whistle my way to work.

"You're late," Wendy calls, the second I walk through the door.

"Two minutes isn't late," I tell her. "It's right on time. And I was actually here right at seven, but I had to change."

"You changed in the parking lot?" She asks flatly, and with a scowl on her face that could rival Coach's. I grin, shrugging. She shakes her head, bending over and pulling my apron out from under the counter; she tosses it to me and gestures to the empty restaurant. "You're on your own. It's my break."

"Sure thing, Boss," I smile at her again, trying to soften her up, but she's already pushing through the swinging double doors that lead into the kitchen. Sighing, I idly tap my order pad on the counter. A quick scan of all the tables confirms that, yes, the diner is empty.

My phone chimes in my pocket; glancing around to make sure Wendy hasn't come back, I pull it out. There is a notification on my Instagram—a direct message. Opening the app, I squint down at the name, which I don't recognize. The photograph doesn't exactly help with identification purposes either, seeing as it's only an ab shot. The message—a simple hey —is equally ambiguous. I shoot a quick hello back, before locking my phone and putting it away. My Instagram profile is set to public, so I get a certain amount of randoms messaging me; I'm used to it at this point. Most of the time they end up being cool, and sometimes I get laid out of the deal. Occasionally, they're a homophobic asshole. Either way, nothing to get worked up over.

I start making my rounds, checking all the tables and refilling condiments. I go as slow as humanly possible, and yet I'm done less than an hour later. Sitting down at an empty booth, I whistle and prep the silverware. When the door dings, I nearly weep from relief. I am not meant for idleness.

"Hi!" I call to the family of three, perhaps a touch too exuberantly. "Have a seat—I'll bring you some water."

I push back into the kitchen, where Reggie and Wendy are sitting across from one another at one of the kitchen worktops. They're playing some sort of card game and there's a pack of cigarettes resting on the stainless-steel top. I point to it.

"That'll kill you," I warn. Reggie, the cook, rolls his eyes. He fans his cards and gestures me over to him with a nod. I bend, peering over his shoulder.

"What do you think, kiddo?" He asks. I make a production of looking at his hand and arrange my features into one of extreme concentration.

"That one." I point to a three of clubs.

"That one, what?"

"I don't know, Reggie. I have no fucking idea what game you're playing." Wendy snorts and Reggie scowls at me. I shrug, straightening. "We've got customers. Living, breathing, warm bodies. Right out there."

I point out the window toward the family. Reggie puts down the card I pointed to, shaking his head. "You take their orders, yet? "

"Nope. Carry on." I point at the cigarettes as I back out the doors. "No smoking in here."

I keep the Miller family here for as long as I can manage. Leaning a hip against the side of the booth, I crank up the charm and chat them up while they peruse the dessert options. I learn that Mrs. Miller's sister is here from out of town and that they went to dinner tonight to escape her. I hear all about Mr. Miller's job as a financial advisor, and little Jacie Miller's problems with a girl at school. I earn every bit of my twelve-dollar tip, if I do say so myself.

"You folks have a good night," I call, waving them out the door. "Best of luck with your recital, Jacie!"

Cleaning up their table, I bring the dishes into the back and set about washing them all. Reggie and Wendy are still playing their card game, and I still have no idea what that game is. I stand beside them, watching, for want of anything better to do, after I finish the washing. I'm just pulling my phone out of my pocket to check my Instagram messages when the bell over the front door tinkles.

"Yes!" I punch the air, and damn near run out of the kitchen. I'm going to die of boredom tonight, I swear to fucking god.

There's a man standing just inside the door. A very, very attractive man. He's tall, with unruly coppery-brown hair and cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. His arms are well-muscled, from what I can see, although the rest of him is hidden beneath a ridiculously oversized shirt. It looks like he's just lost a hundred pounds and hasn't yet purchased a new wardrobe.

"Hello," I say, giving him a welcoming smile. The evening is most definitely looking up. "Have a seat, I'll be right with you. "

Boy will I . He nods and looks around the room, as though he's trying to pick the best of the empty tables. He walks to the one farthest away from the door, and looks back at me, uncertainly.

"Can I sit here?" He asks.

"Anywhere you please." He slides into the seat facing the door and puts a book down on the table. I hadn't even realized he was carrying one. I grab a plastic cup and fill it with water. Setting it down in front of him, I get a good look at his face and realize that I know who he is: Max Kuemper. I also notice that he has the lightest brown eyes I've ever seen: gold rather than shit colored, like mine. "Do you want me to give you a minute to look at the menu? Or perhaps you'd like a suggestion?"

He looks up at me, fingers resting on top of his book. "Just a coffee, please."

I raise an eyebrow. "At eleven o'clock at night? Do you want decaf?"

"Sure," he says, "decaf is fine."

"Anything to eat?"

"No, thank you."

I push away from his table and go to brew him a pot of coffee. I pour out the one that was sitting there burning and start over; no way am I serving somebody that cute this old coffee. Watching him while the coffee percolates, I wonder what SCU's Golden Boy is doing at a 24-hour diner this late on a school night. He's obviously alone, and the presence of the book indicates he's probably not meeting someone. My skin itches with curiosity.

After I bring his decaf over to him, I head back into the kitchen. Reggie looks up from his cards. This must be the slowest card game in the history of card games .

"Anything from the grill?" He asks.

"Nope. Mind if I take a break?"

"Sure, kiddo," he says, waving me away. "Grab something to eat."

I dish myself up two slices of cherry pie, grab two forks, and walk over to where Max Kuemper has his nose in his book. He's leaned on one elbow, cheek resting against his palm.

"Hello," I say, and his body goes completely still for a moment before he looks up at me. He glances over his shoulder, as though wondering if I'm speaking to someone behind him. I grin. "Hello, you ."

"Hi."

I sit down across from him. "How ya doing?"

He stares at me. I wait, patiently. Before he speaks, he deliberately puts a bookmark into his book and closes the cover. "Fine, how are you?"

"Good! What are you reading?"

"Uhm, aren't you supposed to be working?" He asks, lowering his voice and looking around at the empty diner.

"I'm on my break. Want some pie?" I push the plate toward him and hold out a fork. Again, he stares at it for a ridiculous amount of time before he takes it. "I'm Luke, by the way."

"Yes, I know," he says, and I raise my eyebrows. "My friend plays for the baseball team. Marcos."

"No way, you're friends with Marcos the Grouch?" I reply, delighted.

"He's not a grouch," he tells me, loyally. I raise my eyebrows a little higher and take a bite of pie. "Well, okay, yes, he can be somewhat grouchy."

"And you're Max Kuemper," I fill in, since he hasn't introduced himself. I nudge the pie a little closer to him; he's gripping the fork but has yet to take a bite. "Future NHL star and current SCU one. I should have you sign my order pad."

I'm hoping for a laugh, but he only looks embarrassed. Swing and a miss, Luke . I point at the pie. "Do you not like cherry? I can bring you something else."

"Oh. Cherry is fine." As though to prove his point, he cuts off a minuscule portion and puts it into his mouth, chewing mechanically. "Thank you."

"No problem. That piece is yours, so have at it." I point at the larger slice. "So, I was wondering, how would you feel about grabbing dinner sometime?"

The silence stretches much longer this time around, as though he suddenly lost the ability to grasp the English language. To give himself some time, he puts another bite of pie in his mouth and chases it down with some coffee. Those eyes really are extraordinary.

"You want to grab dinner," he repeats.

"Sure do. Unless you're straight, that is. In which case, my loss." I grin at him. He looks down at the pie.

"No," he says carefully, "I'm not. You didn't know that?"

"Nope. And let me just say, you're not setting off any gaydar, either. If you're shooting for straight vibes, you're doing an admirable job."

"Wait. You thought I was straight and yet, you came over to ask me to dinner?"

"Sure." I shrug, wishing I'd thought to bring myself over a glass of water. "Figured I'd shoot my shot; if you weren't into dudes, no harm done and we could just enjoy our pie and talk about…Dostoyevsky? Are you seriously reading that, or are you just trying to impress me?"

He laughs and shakes his head. "You caught me. I've been visiting all the overnight establishments looking for you, just so I could sit here and impress you with my literary taste."

"Well done. I'm very impressed. And now that we've established that you're into me, how about dinner?"

Another startled laugh, and another shake of his head. "Do you do this a lot? Ask out random men?"

"Sure, why not?"

"Because…I don't know. People don't do that. I've never asked someone out without first ascertaining they were at least interested in men ."

"Mm. Okay, hypothetical scenario here. Let's say a young lady walks up to you and asks you to grab coffee sometime. Do you get offended?" I wait for him to shake his head. "No, of course not! You kindly tell her, I'm flattered by your offer, miss, but I prefer sausage to tacos. "

He sputters as he takes a sip of coffee. "That is not what I would say."

"The point is, it's a compliment when someone asks you out. No need to get worked up if you don't play for the same team." I shrug, nonchalantly. "Now, stop dodging the question. Dinner. When are you free?"

"Why…we literally just met. You don't even know me."

"Right. That's what dinner is for. So that I can get to know you." He runs a hand through his copper hair. Or at least he tries, but hits a snag and can't make it all the way through. He pulls his hand away and leaves his hair looking even messier than before.

"I feel like you're fucking with me right now," he says, narrowing his eyes at me.

"I'm really not." Pulling my order pad out of my apron pocket, I jot down my phone number. I write my name— Luke Kelly, baseball star and total babe —and slide it over the table to him. He glances down at it, reads what I wrote, and his mouth twitches into half of a smile. "There. I do have to go back to work, but now you have my number. Text me, or call me, or FaceTime me. We can get to know each other and plan that dinner. Yeah?"

"Are you insane?" He asks, leaning across the table toward me.

"You'll have to go to dinner with me to find out."

He huffs an incredulous laugh and shakes his head. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Text me." I slide out of the booth, and point a finger at him, threateningly. He makes a show of pulling his phone out and inputting my number.

Whistling cheerfully, I leave the pie for him to finish and head back to the kitchen. Before I can even push through the double doors, my phone chimes with a text. Smiling, I pull my phone out and see a message from an unknown number.

Hi. It's Max.

Who gave you this number?

I hear a bark of surprised laughter from the dining room, and my smile grows wider. This night is really looking up.