Play It Safe(3)

One whole side, though, was taken up by a large department store. The stamp at the top of that building declared it was built in 1912. How the hell that thing survived, I would never know seeing as it was clearly locally owned and had not been gobbled up by a conglomerate. That said a lot about the town. If they needed whatever that store sold, they didn’t go to some other store where they could probably get it for less. They took care of their own. That department store had probably been there and owned by the same family for four, five generations, maybe all the way back to 1912. And the town wasn’t letting it go anywhere.

Same with the butcher across the square from the diner. No town had a butcher anymore. That meat probably cost twice as much as grocery store meat and even if it was probably better meat than you could buy in any grocery store, twice was always twice and money was always money. Still, it was there and it was bustling.

So were the sidewalks. Folks out and about, smiling, calling greetings.

The whole place might be creepy if the a third of a block of the two story red brick buildings that were across the street behind the courthouse hadn’t been torn down and in their place a modern (for the time, I was guessing at least two decades ago), glass fronted, somewhat glitzy (now tarnished with age, it was dated and not in a good way, it would need at least another decade or two to come back into retro style) restaurant. Someone had sway with the City Council to build that monstrosity. It marked the space, was totally out of place and didn’t look good. Someone thought their shit didn’t stink, thought it was cool then and would be cool forever. They were wrong. Still, its presence said this place wasn’t perfection. This place wasn’t a creepy, weird town lost in time that Casey and I somehow found ourselves in and we’d never get out because we’d eventually either be captured, deprogrammed and reprogrammed as perfect, small town dwellers. Me in my apron, Casey bringing home the bacon in a manly way. Or we’d be eaten by or become zombies.

So that restaurant was good.

To me, the blight of that restaurant made me like this town even more.

To me, that restaurant made the town with the unbelievably cool name of Mustang imperfect perfection.

“Hey.”

At this word said in a man’s deep voice, I blinked at the window and turned my head.

Then I froze.

This was because, opposite me in the booth sat the man from the bar, the man from that night, the man from the playground.

How did my guard go down so much I didn’t sense him even approach must less make it so his behind was sitting in the booth across from me, his eyes on me, his attractive hand unwinding his scarf?

“Uh…hey,” I replied quietly.

This was not good.

It was sunny. The diner had big, plate glass windows and my booth was right up next to one. It was not a darkened bar or an even more darkened playground.

And he was not attractive.

He was beautiful.

His hair wasn’t dark brown, I was shocked to see. It was actually blond but a blond I’d never seen before. Very dark blond with a hint of red burnish that was nowhere near making him a redhead, just enriching the color of his thick, longish hair so it wasn’t just fantastic, it was astonishing.

His bone structure wasn’t strong, defined and interesting. It was striking.

And I could see the color of his eyes surrounded by thick, long, dark lashes with the same rusty burnish as his hair.

They were a deep, dark blue.

And as he unveiled his throat, I saw its corded, supremely masculine length and my palms got sweaty.

Hells bells.

I pulled it together.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

He opened his mouth to speak as he dropped the scarf next to him on the seat but I heard shouted, “Gray! Breakfast or coffee?”

He turned his head and my eyes followed to see my waitress across the way. She was wearing faded jeans that were too tight, definitely bought before she’d put on the extra fifteen pounds she wore and that extra fifteen had been added to an extra thirty. Same with her sweater. An apron was tied around her disappearing waist and it did her no favors, unfortunately.

“Had breakfast, Ang, coffee,” he called back then turned to me. Finishing shrugging off his jacket, he swung it out from behind him and dropped it on his scarf. “I’m Gray,” he announced as he settled.

“Hi Gray,” I replied then repeated, “Can I help you?”

He grinned and he really shouldn’t have done that. He really shouldn’t have.

Because he had a dimple in his left cheek, it made him go from strikingly handsome to strikingly handsome with a hint of cute thrown in for good measure. And if that wasn’t enough, it brought my attention to his lips which, I did not know how, but I hadn’t noticed until then were full and inviting.

My mouth got dry.

“I’m Gray,” he repeated, I tore my eyes from his now moving, beautiful lips to his equally beautiful eyes and he went on, “You are?”

I pulled it together again.

“I’m wondering how I can help you.”

His eyes went funny, assessing, watchful as his head tipped slightly to the side.

Then he untipped his head and noted, “You’re still in town.”

I looked down at myself then at him and agreed, “Yep.”

He grinned again.

Hells bells!

“You get warm the other night?” he asked.