Queen POV
The smell of grease had seeped so far into my clothes, I was starting to think it was permanent. By the middle of my shift at the diner, I was convinced if someone cut me open, I'd bleed maple syrup and burnt bacon.
"Queen! Table six needs a refill!"
I didn't turn around. "They just got one."
"Well now they need another!"
Of course they did. Exhaling slowly through my nose, I grabbed the nearest coffee pot like it had personally offended me and began weaving through the tables. The diner buzzed around me: forks scraping, loud laughter, the low hum of country music from the jukebox. The late night croud had just started to thin and die down. Which meant less work, more time for people to get comfortable and more time for my feet to get a break. I plastered a smile on my face as I stopped at the table, giving the two truckers their third cup of coffee in the 40 minutes they'd been here. I could understand the need, but jeez slow down a little. I acknowledged their gruff thank yous and made my rounds to each of my tables, if only to keep from being called back again too soon.
I refilled the cups, nodded through a complaint I didn't care about, and made a beeline to the counter. Once there I placed the nearly empty coffee pot down and plopped myself onto a stool. A small sigh of relief escaped my lips as a leaned down and masaged my aching feet. I looked around the diner as I did so and that's when I noticed him. There was a man I hadn't seen before sitting alone in a corner booth. I probably didn't notice his entry because I was busy with my tables. But I could tell this mad didn't belong here. Not in a dramatic way though, just the wrong place. He sat real still, too still in a place that never stopped moving. His cowboy hat was tipped low and the dark t-shirt he wore stretched across broad shoulders, his muscles straining against the fabric. He held today's paper in his hand, strong olive toned fingers holding the pages upright. If I squinted I could make out bold letters tattoed across each one of them. My gaze made its way up one tattoed forearm, black ink swirled across toned biceps and into the sleeves of the shirt. Wow, this man clearly took very good care of himself. My eyes flittered over to his other arm, tatooed in the same manner and draped along the back of the booth like he had nowhere else to be and all the time in the world. Calm, too calm. And very, very sexy.
My eyes lingered a second too long. As if he could feel my eyes on him, his head tilted just slightly—I snapped my gaze away so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash.
"Girl, who you lookin' at?" Jessica slid up beside me with a cheesy grin, already knowing.
"Nobody," I said quickly, grabbing a stack of napkins that did not need grabbing.
"Mhm." She leaned just enough to peek.
"Corner booth?" I didn't answer.
She laughed. "Oh yeah, he's fine."
"I didn't say all that."
"You didn't have to." She nudged me. "Go say something."
"I'm working."
"You been working all night. That don't stop you from talking."
I rolled my eyes, but I could feel the heat creeping up my neck. "I'm not about to go bother that man while he's eating."
"Uh huh. You just gonna keep sneaking little looks then?"
"I am not—"
"Hey baby girl, you gonna keep ignoring me all night?" There it was. Right on time. I closed my eyes for half a second before turning around.
Manny.
He sat in the same booth as always wearing the same dopey expression. He was drunk, the same two friends beside him, laughing like background noise.
"What do you want, Manny?" I asked flatly.
He grinned slow, lazy. "Damn, you don't even say hello no more?"
"I did that the first fifty times. Didn't seem to stick." His friends laughed as I reluctantly grabbed the coffee pot and walked over to the table.
Manny leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes dragging over me in a way that made my stomach lurch in disgust.
"I want..." he paused for a beat, "you."
I didn't even blink. "Not on the menu."
"Ain't gotta be," he said, voice dropping. "I'll make my own order."
I shook the coffee pot. "You want coffee or you want me to walk away?"
He tilted his head, studying me. "Why you always act like that? All stuck up, like you don't like the attention."
Something hot flared in my chest—but I swallowed it. Because I needed this job. Because I had bills. Because I had a five-year-old at home who needed more than pride.
"Coffee," I repeated, holding the pot steady. "Or I walk."
For a second, neither of us moved. Then he leaned back and looked at his friends with a chuckle. "Yeah, a'ight."
I turned to leave—his fingers brushed against my ass. It was light and quick, but definitely intentiomal. My whole body went rigid. I spun around, eyes locking onto his.
"Don't touch me." The table went quiet.
Manny raised his hands like I was overreacting, but something in his expression had shifted. He was testing me.
"Relax sweetheart " he said. "Ain't nobody tryna hurt you."
"I ain't your sweetheart, keep your freaking hands to yourself."
For a second, I thought he might push it further. But instead, he leaned back again, smirking.
"Feisty, I like it" He slowly dragged his tongue across his lips, looking me up and down. Bile rose in my throat and I quickly swallowed it down.
I turned away before I said something that would cost me my job. Because this wasn't new but it was getting worse. At first it was looks. Then came the comments. Then "accidental" touches. Now? It felt like he was waiting for the right moment.
I grabbed a rag and wiped down the counter, trying to shake the feeling crawling under my skin. And when I glanced back toward the corner, the cowboy was watching. Not like Manny. It wasn't a hungry or lustful stare, more observant and aware. Like he'd seen everything and had heard my thoughts. I looked away first.