Chapter 2

CHAPTER

TWO

Judy

I glide between the tables with a practiced ease, my tray a balancing act of steaming coffee and cherry-topped milkshakes. It's one of those shifts where the clock can't seem to move fast enough, each tick a sluggish step towards freedom.

The diner buzzes with life, the hum of conversation blending with the clinks of cutlery against porcelain. I'm weaving through it all, a smile plastered on my face because tips are the lifeline that'll pay this month's rent.

"More coffee, Mr. H?" I ask Mr. Henderson, who's practically part of the furniture here. He nods, and I top off his cup, my mind wandering to the canvas sitting unfinished in my apartment. The bright colors, the bold strokes—they're waiting for me. But so is the reality of bills. Art feeds the soul, but it's the diner that fills the fridge.

There's a bell over the door, and it jangles as someone walks in—a sound I've grown used to, a Pavlovian call to action. I turn, ready to flash another customer my most charming welcome, but the words catch in my throat.

Holy hotness on a pancake stack.

It's him —the wrestler from the other night, muscles and all, looking like he stepped right out of the ring and into my diner. My pulse kicks up a notch, thudding in my ears like I'm the one about to face a heavyweight champ.

"Table for one?" I hear the hostess ask, her voice a distant buzz compared to the stampede in my chest.

His eyes lock onto mine across the room, and it's like he's got some kind of tractor beam. They're the kind of eyes that see right through you, that strip you bare and leave you feeling exposed. And man, do they stick to me like syrup on hotcakes.

"Actually," he says, his voice a low rumble that somehow finds its way to me, "I was hoping for a seat in her section."

He cocks his head toward me, and my cheeks flame hotter than the grill, but I keep my cool—or at least I pretend to. Because Judy doesn't fumble. She serves breakfast with a side of sass and never drops a plate.

"Sure thing." The hostess gestures toward my domain, a hint of mischief in her eyes.

She knows. She totally knows I'm freaking out.

"Ready for your order?" I ask as he settles into the booth, trying to sound casual, like gorgeous men with biceps the size of my head waltz in here every day asking for me by default.

"Actually, I was hoping we could talk," he says, and there's an edge to his voice that feels like a dare.

Talk? That's definitely not on the menu. But as he looks at me with those intense eyes, everything else falls away—the clatter of the diner, the weight of my financial tightrope, even the lingering scent of bacon in the air.

"Sure," I say, my own voice sounding far away. "Let's talk."

"Take a load off, join me," he says with a grin that could knock me right back into last Tuesday.

"Um, that's not really allowed?" I tell him hesitantly, but my heart's doing somersaults inside my chest. My manager would have a cow, but then again, when did I ever play by all the rules?

"Today it is." There's a command in his tone, one that tells me this isn't just some suggestion—it's an invitation to something more, something unpredictable.

So I slide into the booth opposite him, my apron still tied around my waist, feeling every inch the waitress out of her element. The vinyl seat is cool beneath me, a stark contrast to the heat crawling up my neck.

"What's your name?" he starts, and it's like we're alone in the world.

"Judy," I answer, my voice somehow steady despite the butterflies rioting in my stomach.

"Tell me about Judy," he prompts, leaning forward, elbows on the table, gaze locked onto mine.

"Well, what do you want to know?" I laugh, nervous energy zipping through me.

He leans even closer, those eyes of his piercing into mine intensely. "Everything," he says simply.

I swallow. "I'm an artist. Or at least, I'm trying to be. I sling hash here to keep the dream alive."

"An artist," he repeats, tasting the word like it's something sweet. "What kind of art?"

"Mostly painting," I say, warming to the subject. "Landscapes, some abstract. It's messy and colorful and..." I trail off, realizing I'm rambling. But he's watching me—really watching—like my words are the most important thing in the room.

"Sounds passionate," he observes, and there's a flicker of something in his eyes—admiration? Interest?

My confidence swells, buoyed by his attention. "What about you? What should I know about the man who's got half the city chanting his name?"

He levels a look at me. "You were at my fight, but you ran away before I could talk to you."

I sputter, "I…I didn't run away. I don't know what you're talking about."

Oh, but I do. I remember my sharp intake of breath as his eyes met mine from the ring. The way the world seemed to melt away and it was just tiny little ‘ole me and this big burly wrestler basically eye fucking each other.

I thought I had just imagined it all, that I was starstruck. My roomie drug me to the match cause she's into stuff like that and didn't want to go alone. I didn't think it was my thing, but holy moly was it ever after I set eyes on Cedric.

He was magnificent. So magnificent I went home and touched myself while thinking about him.

My cheeks flush as I realize what I'm thinking about while sitting across from the man himself.

Cedric's chest is heaving up and down and he's looking at me like he's inside my head and knows exactly what I'm thinking about. Which he can't, can he?

I clear my throat and steer the conversation back to him. "But, yeah, what about you?"

"Ah, but today's not about me," he deflects with a wave of his hand, as if pushing away the spotlight. "Today, I want to soak up everything Judy."

I really need to get back to work I say as I start to rise, but Cedric reaches into his pocket, pulls out his wallet and throws a hundred dollar bill on the table.

"Stay," he demands.

I merely gawk down at the money and then up at him. "I can't. My manager will have my head if I don't see to my section."

Cedric throws another hundred on the table, and I think my eyes are going to pop out of my head.

"I'll deal with her," he states simply as he motions the hostesss over. He places two hundred dollar bills in her hand and tells her one is for her and one is for the manger if they cover my tables.

Of course, she takes the money eagerly and assures him it's a done deal.

I watch her scurry off and talk to the manager who gives me a smirk and a nod before she turns her back, signalling that all is right with her.

I turn back to find Cedric's intense gaze still trained on me.

"So," he says, "you're mine now."