Beautifully Cruel (Beautifully Cruel #1)(2)

I imagine rolling moors thick with purple tufts of heather, gray fingers of fog creeping through the ruins of medieval castles, charming little houses scaling the shores of a seaside cliff.

A big black wolf howling under a full moon.

Examining my expression with sharp eyes, he says, “Have you been to the old country?”

“No.”

“If you like wild places, you should go.”

I blurt, “I do love wild places. And wild things.”

Holding my gaze, the wolf says softly, “Do you.”

It isn’t a question. He says it as if he’s mulling it over. Considering what types of wild things I might particularly enjoy.

So of course, because I’m flustered, I start to babble.

“I meant I’m used to wild places. I’m from one. Little tiny town in Texas in the middle of nowhere where the sky is so blue it’s blinding and the plains stretch out into forever and there’s a million things that can kill you, from tornadoes to scorpions to venomous snakes to your half-blind, half-drunk hillbilly cousin who likes to practice target shooting in his backyard on Sunday after church when the family comes over for lunch and you’re wearing the fake fur coat your granny got you for Christmas that has an unfortunate resemblance to a deer.”

In the wake of that horrifying speech, all the little noises in the diner seem painfully loud. The rain on the roof sounds like a hail of bullets.

The wolf stares at me, rapt.

He’s never seen such a train wreck before.

“Well,” I say brightly. “I’ll leave you to your coffee. Cheerio!”

Cheeks burning, I hurry back into the kitchen. Unfortunately, it’s an open style format, so patrons can see straight through past the front counter to the grill and meal prep area beyond. I have to round the corner to the back where the big walk-in cooler is so I can cry in private.

Diego, the short order cook, sends me a questioning look as I sail past.

Carla finds me thirty seconds later, standing there whimpering with the coffee pot still clutched in my hand.

She says, “What are you doing?”

“Praying for a brain aneurism. Unless that’s painful, then I’ll settle for some kind of natural disaster that will kill me quickly and leave a decent-looking corpse.”

Carla thinks for a moment. “I’d say a flash flood, but you’d have a lot of bloating.”

“Plus, drowning would be too scary. What’s more peaceful than that?”

She purses her lips, thinking. “Maybe the building could collapse on top of you?”

I consider it. “Yeah, but then I’d be flattened. I can’t look like a pancake when they pull me out of the rubble.”

“What difference would it make what you’d look like? You’d be dead.”

My sigh is heavy and hopeless. “The only thing my mother loves more than Dolly Parton are beauty pageants and Mary Kay cosmetics. If she saw her daughter looking like roadkill, even in death, it would be the end of her.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“You don’t know my mother.”

“And I’m counting myself lucky. Anyway, the guy on twelve wants a refill of his coffee.”

“Why can’t you give it to him?”

Carla looks at the carafe in my hand.

“Shit. Why doesn’t Buddy buy another coffee machine for this dump?”

“Because they cost money. You know this. Now go refill twelve.”

“I can’t. I’m hiding.”

“Why the hell are you hiding?”

“I know this is hard for you to understand because you don’t have the kind of personality that can turn a sixty-second conversation into an exercise in personal humiliation, but I can’t show my face in the dining room again until the big bad wolf leaves.”

Carla scrunches up her nose. She already knows it’s bad. “Oh no. What did you say to him?”

“Are you ready for this? Cheerio. Like I’m channeling my inner Julie Andrews.”

“You didn’t.”

My laugh is full of dark despair. “Oh, yes, I sure did. And that was after I shared a witty anecdote about the time my cousin Bubba Joe shot me.”

Carla stares at me in horror. “Please tell me you don’t really have a cousin named Bubba Joe.”

“Hand on the bible. I couldn’t make this stuff up.”

“Wow. My condolences. And he shot you?”

“I was fine, but that idiot peppered up the back of my fake fur with so much bird shot it looked like moths had gotten to it. By the way, thanks for being more shocked about his name than him shooting me. I appreciate the support.”

“You’ll live. Now go refill the guy on twelve. And try not to talk. I can’t have you costing me my tip.”

She turns and leaves, the heartless wench.

Squaring my shoulders, I promise myself I won’t speak to the wolf again. My crippling social anxiety has humiliated me enough for one evening.

Life is unfairly hard for introverts. Something as common as interacting with another breathing human can knock us off kilter for days. In fact, I’m not sure socializing has even one tangible benefit. If I didn’t have to work for a living, I’d never leave my apartment.

Unfortunately, I’m often mistaken for an extrovert because when I’m nervous, I chatter on and on. I can’t count how many times I’ve had to duck into a bathroom stall and do deep breathing exercises to try to calm down.