Beautiful Sacrifice (The Maddox Brothers, #3)(9)

I dressed in one of the dozen or so V-neck shirts stored in my tiny closet and stepped into my favorite jeans that I’d found at the local ARC Thrift Store. The faded skinnies were the pair I’d purchased just a couple of days after moving into the loft, after my first paycheck from the Bucksaw, and after Phaedra had found out I was sleeping in my car, exactly ten days before my parents had towed and sold it.

Even though I’d had a bedroom full of designer clothes and shoes at my parents’ house, my closet in the loft still had plenty of space. Aside from the things I had stashed in a bag—like toiletries, water, snacks, and the shoebox—before my getaway, all I’d had was my car and the clothes on my back. Five years at the Bucksaw had gained me five more pairs of jeans, three shorts, and a dozen or so shirts. It was easy to do without when you had nowhere to go.

I pulled back the top section of my hair into a clip, letting my bangs fall, which would catch my eyelashes every time I blinked.

Always in my damn eyes!

The time for a haircut at The Falyn Salon was overdue. I glanced down to the drawer that held the scissors and decided against it since it was just before my infamous date with a cute but decidedly unlucky hotshot. There was no way he would be able to compete with my perfect dream version of him, who could make me orgasm with just a side glance, so my mind had already written him off as a disappointment.

After scrubbing my face and completing the rest of my morning routine, I grabbed my apron and pushed open my door. With a quick flip of the wrist, I locked the door behind me. After just a short jaunt down a narrow hallway and fifteen stairs, I was in the Bucksaw again.

Chuck was at the prep table, and Phaedra was counting the cash in the register, the morning sun highlighting the silver strands in her hair.

“It’s like I never left,” I announced.

“You say that every morning,” Phaedra called back to me.

“It feels like that every morning.”

“You say that every morning, too,” Chuck said. He placed a plate of pancakes drowning in syrup, topped with a small swirl of whipped cream and a sliced strawberry, onto the counter in the window between the kitchen and the main dining area.

“For the record, I can think of only one other place I’d rather be,” I said, taking my plate.

“You’ll get there,” Chuck said.

“So, the kid,” Phaedra began, a hint of warning in her tone. “He’s awfully cute.”

“Nothing I can’t handle.” My words were garbled around the forkful of pancake I’d just shoved into my mouth.

“He’s picking you up here?” Chuck asked, crossing his arms over the window counter that sat just below chest level for him.

The space was big enough to place at least five plates of food when we were busy.

He looked to his left when Hector pushed through the double doors leading into the kitchen.

“Morning,” Chuck said.

“Hello, Mr. Chuck,” Hector said, sitting on a stool at the end of the bar. He prayed over the omelet he’d brought from the kitchen before shoving a fourth of it into his mouth.

Ten feet behind where Hector sat was the stairway that led to my loft.

“Whatcha lookin’ at, Falyn?” Phaedra asked.

“It used to bother me that anyone inside the Bucksaw could walk up those stairs.”

“Until you realized that I have no patience for curious patrons.”

Chuck laughed. “Not even kids. Remember the time you made the Morris boy cry?”

“Jumpin’ jacks, Chuck, he’s in middle school now. Are you ever going to let that go?”

“No,” Chuck said. “Because I love the look on your face when I bring it up.”

From his spot in the food window, Chuck faced forward, staring down the long bar lined with stools. It separated the cash register and a couple of drink stations from the main dining area. To Kirby and me, that narrow space felt like home base, a place where we could have a few seconds to gather ourselves before heading back out into the trenches.

I sat on one of the barstools, happily chewing my bite of pancake drenched in syrup.

“You dodged my question, Falyn,” Chuck said.

I wasn’t particularly in a rush to swallow the sweet goodness of the spongy pancake to answer Chuck, but I didn’t want to be rude. “I’m not sure if he’s picking me up here. I haven’t heard from him.”

“He’ll come by I bet,” Phaedra said, closing the cash register drawer. She crossed her arms. “Now, if he is anything but a gentleman—”

“I know,” I said. “I’ll punch him in the throat.”

“Good girl,” Phaedra said, punching the air. “They hate that.”

“She’s right,” Chuck called from the kitchen. “We do!”

I laughed once, knowing Chuck would rather cut off his stirring hand than do anything to a woman to earn a throat-punch.

Chuck disappeared from the window and then pushed open the swinging doors. He wiped his hands on his pristine apron, leaving orangish-brown streaks behind.

“Uh-oh,” I said mid-bite, noticing Chuck’s expression. “You’re not going to give me the talk, are you? Please don’t.”

“What about this boy? I’m concerned about your motivations, but I’m even more concerned about his intentions,” Chuck said.