Last Chance at the Someday Café

by Angel Smits

  He continued to look around with growing interest. The pale green wall color and white subway tile fit her, though the regular stove and small counters did not.

  He didn’t say anything, and he didn’t think he made any noise, but she turned her head. Their gazes met and held. Her eyes were pale blue, a color that fit with the light tone of her blond hair. Wisps fluttered in the air that wafted from the heat vent.

  The image he’d seen of her on his computer where she’d been wearing the tank top and shorts flashed in his mind, reminding him that beneath that damp sweater were sweet curves and pretty, smooth skin.

  Look somewhere else. He yanked his gaze to the surroundings, forcing his mind to think mundane thoughts.

  This place told him more than he’d expected. He felt welcome here. She was relaxed and made her way around the kitchen table with ease.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” she asked as she put the groceries away.

  “Nah, I’m good.” Morgan shoved his hands into his pockets to keep himself from reaching out. He’d always learned by touching and feeling, not just looking. And this place was filled with things he was sorely tempted to pick up and feel, experience. Including her.

  “Well, I’m cold.” She rubbed her arms, and he couldn’t tear his gaze away from her movements. “I’m making some coffee.” Her smile reached out to him. “I’ll share.”

  Stretching, she opened some upper cabinets and pulled out a canister. He stood there staring like a fool when her shirt rode up, just a little, to expose her sweet, flat abdomen. He tore his gaze away from her again. The scent of fresh-ground coffee wafted in the air as she busied herself making a pot. What was wrong with him? He had to get out of here before he said or did something stupid. He looked around for an escape.

  As he turned, nearly bolting for the door, a shelf above the kitchen table caught his eye. Polished wood, it overflowed with books. Cookbooks. These weren’t fancy, gourmet books. No, these were old, tattered—the kind he remembered seeing in his grandmother’s house. That woman could cook.

  “You get ideas for your menu from those?” He tipped his head toward the shelf.

  Tara looked up. “From...?” She followed his gaze and smiled as if she didn’t notice the tension thick in the air. “Some, yes.” She took a step toward the shelf. “Some I can’t use since they don’t even make the ingredients anymore. But I was able to modify a few of them.”

  She pulled down an especially tattered book and flipped through the yellowed pages. Finally, she found what she was looking for and pointed to a spot on the page. “This is the recipe I started with to make my turnovers.” She looked at him and smiled. “The ones you liked so much last night.”

  Morgan smiled back, and the sound of the clock ticking over their heads was loud in the stillness between them.

  His mind wound around itself. She’d noticed how much he’d liked the turnovers? She paid attention. To him.

  “Do you know all your customers so well?” Damn. His voice broke on the third word. He cleared his throat.

  “Some.” She stepped back and, with deliberate movements, pulled thick coffee mugs from the cupboard. “Sugar, right?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  She grabbed a sugar bowl, a dainty cup with the same green color as the walls in the design on the sides. He focused on that, trying and failing to not focus on her movements.

  Filling both cups, Tara took her time preparing them, his with sugar, hers with a touch of cream and sweetener. Her hands were delicate, the nails trimmed short and even. She didn’t wear any jewelry—no ring, no bracelet or watch. None of the glitz other women wore, but she didn’t need it.

  He almost didn’t take the cup when she extended it to him. Almost.

  Their fingers brushed. Where her skin was soft, the cup was solid. Both were warm. The scent of the coffee and something else—perfume—wafted between them.

  Morgan leaned against the counter and cradled the cup. He had to do something with his hands or he’d try to touch her.

  “So, tell me about Morgan Thane.” She leaned on the opposite counter and faced him. She took a deep drink from her mug and waited.

  “Not much to tell. My brother, Jack, and I run our trucking company. I drive. He’s the office. Nothing fancy. What about you? Wendy says you just bought the diner.” He wasn’t into sharing anything about his past with her. Not yet, and certainly not now. Discussing Sylvie was off the table here in Tara’s pretty little kitchen.

  “Yeah.” She smiled and he knew he’d found her soft spot. He focused on his cup, wishing instead that he could taste the excited blush that swept up her cheeks.

  “I’ve been working on the diner for a couple months. Daisy wanted to keep going, but she just couldn’t do it anymore.”

  “The diner looks different but—” He frowned, looking for the best way to explain his thoughts. “Feels the same.”

  “Thanks. That’s a compliment. I always loved Daisy’s place. I tried to keep some of it.”

  Tara grinned and he felt a responding warmth in his chest. He laughed, surprising himself with how good it felt. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed a woman’s company.

  Not since long before Sylvie left.

  * * *

  TARA KNEW HER apartment was small, and this kitchen even smaller. She should have felt cramped here with him. But she didn’t. She liked the closeness, and despite all her good intentions, she wanted to be closer. Much closer.

  Morgan Thane attracted her. And despite her denials to Wendy, he was most certainly her type. He was a good-looking, apparently decent guy. Yep, her type.

  “Where are you from, originally?” Not from here. She might have grown up in Austin, but the ranch down the road where her brother now lived had belonged to her grandparents. She’d spent plenty of time here. She knew most of the locals.

  “Dallas,” he said with a definite grimace in his voice. “The business is based there.”

  She nodded, taking in the information—the safe, untempting information. She tried to formulate safe, intelligent questions. “You said you have a brother. Older or younger?”

  He laughed. “Younger by three years.”

  Ah, the older brother. She tried not to compare him to her own three brothers.

  “You have brothers and sisters?”

  She grimaced. “Five. Three brothers. Two sisters. All older.”

  “That was a houseful.” He almost sounded wistful.

  “Definitely. Crowded.” She ignored his reaction.

  Morgan finished his coffee and moved to the sink to rinse the cup. She didn’t move, and his arm brushed hers. Heat shot up Tara’s arm and her heart picked up pace.

  Despite a faint voice in the back of her mind trying to warn her, she couldn’t resist. Her curiosity, among other things, was piqued.

  Time stretched and somehow the voice grew a bit louder—her earlier misgiving about bringing him here returned. Not because she feared him. No, she was the problem. She had too much to lose by letting another man disrupt her plans.

  She forced herself to step back—mentally, as the kitchen was too small to physically do so—from the temptation he provided.

  The clatter of the cup against the sink startled her and she jumped, coming into even closer contact with him.

  He’d definitely warmed up. And his T-shirt was dry.

  Neither of them moved.

  She dared to look at him. He was so close, and she could see the texture of his day’s whiskers and the fan of his eyelashes around his green eyes.

  “Thanks for helping,” she whispered, staring at him over her cup’s rim. Her fingers gripped the handle for dear life.

  For an instant, he didn’t respond, and she worried he hadn’t heard her over the patter of the raindrops against t
he windowpane.

  Slowly, Morgan took a step toward her and plucked the cup from her hand. He set it on the counter. Then, he moved his hand upward, slowly, his palm cupping her chin, his thumb making a featherlight swipe over her lips.

  She caught herself before she licked her lips, hoping to taste anything his touch left behind.

  “I should go.” His voice was soft, but she definitely heard the heat in it. He didn’t move away.

  “I—” She swallowed. “I’m glad you came by. I enjoy your company.” What was wrong with her? Why had she said that? Though she had thought it dozens of times since he walked into her diner that first day.

  He chuckled softly but didn’t say anything more. Instead he used those articulate lips for something better. He tasted of the rain, of the coffee he’d just finished and something else. Something warm, something—tender.

  Tara stopped thinking. Only feeling—the solid bands of his arms around her waist, his fingers splayed across her back, the warm wall of his chest beneath her palms and the full length of her forearms.

  When had she closed her eyes? She couldn’t recall, she didn’t care and she reveled in the darkness, tasting, touching—feeling this wonder.

  Slowly, Morgan slid the tip of his tongue across the seam of her lips, hinting, asking for entry, seeking more of her. And she wanted more of him, too. Much, much more.

  Hesitantly at first, Tara slipped her arms over the hard contours of his chest to loop over his shoulders and around his neck. She held on tight, her fingers brushed the close-trimmed hair at the nape of his neck.

  Was that sound her sigh or his? “Again?” his touch silently asked, and she leaned closer, if that were possible, and let him in.

  Everything about the man was solid and warm. Hot. She leaned into him, and he took the full weight of her against him. Angling his head, his lips found more of hers, drinking her in. His hands curled around her, the heat of his palms burning through her clothing, making her feel as if she’d been branded by his touch.

  They couldn’t get much closer, but she ached to be much, much closer. Ached to feel him against her skin.

  As if he had some type of psychic power, his hand slid beneath the fabric of her sweater, brushing her skin like a match touching kindling. She trembled.

  “Morgan,” she whispered against his lips, needing to say something but unable to form a sentence.

  He didn’t move. He didn’t breathe, it seemed. Then he withdrew his hand from her skin. “No,” Morgan whispered, surprising her as he put his hands on her shoulders. “This...” Shaking his head, Morgan stepped back, those warm fingers lingering, then leaving a trail down her arm, before he abruptly turned away. “Thanks for the coffee. I’ll let myself out.”

  He couldn’t seem to get away fast enough. Before Tara could move, she heard the door open, then close. Morgan’s footsteps were loud and hurried down the stairs. The front door opened, then closed. After that, she couldn’t hear anything more. Only the patter of the rain on the window broke the silence he left behind.

  He was gone.

  She was happy. Relieved. He’d saved her from herself, from her own weakness. She stared at the closed door, hearing the rain beating on the roof.

  He’d be soaked in seconds. She shivered, recalling how he looked in his damp clothes. Was he right? Was their kiss really a mistake? Why did he think that? The speed of his escape said so much and didn’t tell her a blessed thing.

  * * *

  STUPID. STUPID. STUPID. Morgan called himself every kind of fool as he stomped down the sidewalk. He could still taste her, still feel the soft, giving warmth of her lips under his. Every muscle in his body, save for the one thumping deep in his chest, screamed to turn back and pick up where he’d left off.

  When he’d left his truck earlier, all he’d planned to do was go downtown and ask some questions. He hadn’t intended on meeting Tara. Hadn’t planned to follow her home like a sad puppy dog. And he certainly hadn’t planned to kiss her.

  That had been the stupidest piece of all.

  But oh, so worth it. His memory filled with the images and sensations of her so close, so sweet and warm.

  He cursed and resumed stomping across the damp pavement.

  Soon, he was at the diner and he climbed into the cab of his truck. He was soaked through again, and the rain still pounded, loud and tinny against the truck’s metal roof and the windshield. It was deafening. He sat in the bucket seat and stared at the storm, understanding its fury completely.

  His phone rang, and he almost missed answering Jack’s call because digging it out of his sodden jeans pocket took effort. “What?” he barked into the phone.

  “Well, aren’t you cheery,” Jack snapped. “What the hell happened to you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  Morgan could almost hear Jack rolling his eyes. It was Jack’s favorite expression when he was frustrated with him, which had been quite often when they were growing up.

  “Look,” Jack started over, ignoring Morgan’s mood. “I got you a load. It’s from here in Dallas and back to Haskins Corners by tomorrow night. It’s doable, if you aren’t in the middle of something.”

  The middle of something? Morgan thought about Tara and the mess he’d left at her apartment. Yeah. Not in the middle of anything really important. “I can leave now and get back here by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “That’s what I told the client.”

  Good. That was solved. They talked details for a few more minutes, then, after the call ended, Morgan slipped into the back. He hustled to change into dry clothes then settled behind the wheel.

  He needed to get out of here. Going through his checks, he prepared to head out. Between now and the time he returned, he’d come up with a plan. He’d find another place to park. Maybe the woman from the T-shirt stand would call and he’d have another lead. Either way, returning to the diner was not in the cards.

  Someone pounded on the side of the truck. Hard. Even fist beats against the metal door. Morgan frowned and reached over to open the passenger door.

  Tara stood there, staring at him. She was soaking wet, her hair plastered to her head and around her face. Her eyes looked big and endearing, nearly dragging him in. Her damp clothes clung to places he tried really hard not to look at.

  “Are you leaving?” she yelled over the roar of the engine and the pounding rain.

  “Yeah.” He wasn’t saying anything else. That’s what had gotten him in trouble earlier.

  “Are you coming back?”

  He still didn’t speak, not for a long time. Instead, he shrugged and stared straight ahead through the windshield. She didn’t leave. She didn’t get in out of the rain. She simply stood there. He could feel her gaze on him. He was not going to give in, not going to turn and drink in the look of her.

  Something must have made her change her mind. Instead of stepping away from the roar of the truck, she curled her hand around the thick, metal handrail and pulled herself up. Before he could think or say anything, she was there, inside the cab. The door slammed with a loud wham.

  “Are you going to answer me?”

  He clenched his teeth and had to actually fight with himself to stop from looking at her. God, he wanted to haul her close. He knew he had to resist, but what a temptation she was. He ached, resisting. He knew he had to face her, had to look at her, had to tell her the truth and risk—no, probably guarantee—he’d push her away.

  “Go home, Tara. Or inside the diner,” he said softly, slowly turning his head to look at her, not moving another muscle of his body except to clench the steering wheel with a death grip. “Just...go inside.”

  “Not until you answer me.” She settled into the seat. “Are you coming back?”

  The silence was thick. “No. Coming back would
be a mistake.”

  It took her a while to digest that. “Why?” she finally whispered.

  Morgan’s heart sank to somewhere deep in his gut. “That kiss—” He gulped. “Can’t happen again.”

  “Why?” she repeated.

  He swallowed, not wanting to see the reaction on her face, not wanting to see her hurt, anger or disappointment. He squared his shoulders. The words sat bitter in his stomach before he let them go. “Tara. I’m...married.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  TARA STARED. At the rain on the side window. At the silhouette of the big man who’d touched her so gently a short while ago. The anguish on Morgan’s face cut through the growing shadows.

  She curled her hand into a fist. How dare he? The fingers of her other hand closed around the door handle. Icy, cold rain splashed in as she shoved the heavy door open. She didn’t say anything. Neither did he. Climbing down, Tara closed the door, though she wanted to slam it to ease the pain slicing through her entire body.

  She ran. Dodging the fat, wet drops as well as the mortification snapping at her heels. After he’d left her apartment, she’d run after him, through the rain, not caring that she was soaked, not caring that she shivered, only needing to catch up to him. Needing to understand what had just happened.

  What had she been thinking? She hadn’t. She’d simply reacted, the very thing she’d promised herself she would not do anymore.

  But now she knew. Nothing. Nothing at all was going on between them.

  She needed to get away. From him. Very far away.

  Reaching the rear door of the diner, Tara yanked it open and hustled through the kitchen. The lights and clatter of cookware were painful contrasts to the quiet night.

  She wasn’t supposed to be here. She’d taken tonight off—a first in the weeks since she’d bought the place. That’s why she’d gone grocery shopping, why she’d been heading to her apartment when she’d run into Morgan.

  The idea of being home alone made her stomach twist. But facing anyone—her staff, customers—was not an option. She had plenty of bookwork to do. And recipes to work on. More than enough to distract her.