Chapter 3

Guilt twisted in her gut as she stood there, watching them. Why did Joe have to be such a complete jerk? Part of her wanted to wrap her arms around this stranger who'd just saved her from disaster. Rowan. The name fit him strong, a little old-fashioned, kind of rugged.

And God, was he ever big.

He smiled at her then, a real one that crinkled the corners of his eyes, and it hit her like a burst of warmth on a cold day. Something told her he didn't smile nearly enough. Maybe I could change that. The thought popped into her head uninvited, so sudden it almost threw her off balance. She kept her own smile steady, trying to shove down the flutter in her chest.

She felt strange, off-kilter in a way she couldn't name. "Anyway," she said, forcing lightness into her voice, "it was really nice meeting you."

"Nice meeting you too, Elara." His voice was low, rough around the edges. "Are you planning to stick around town for a long time?"

"Hoping to, yeah. I'd like to put down some roots here if things work out."

"No family waiting on you somewhere?" one of his friends asked from the booth.

She shook her head before she could think better of it. "Nope. Just me." Great, Elara. Spill your lonely life story to total strangers. For all she knew, they could be anyone. But something about Rowan made her feel... safe. Like she could let her guard down without getting burned.

She turned back to him, not ready for the conversation to end. "Really nice meeting you," she said again, cringing inwardly at how lame she sounded.

This time she offered her hand. He took it, his palm warm and calloused, engulfing hers completely. She didn't want to let go. I didn't want him to.

"I hope I'll see you around," she added softly.

His grip lingered. "You will," he said, eyes locked on hers. "Count on it."

His friends stood, grabbing the box of coffee and muffins she'd packed. Rowan finally released her hand, looking like there was more he wanted to say. But he didn't. He just nodded once and headed for the door with the others.

She watched them go, disappointment settling heavy in her stomach. No phone number, no "hey, can I see you again?" Nothing. Just like that, it was over.

Part of her wanted to chase after them, toss the stupid apron and follow whatever pull she felt toward him. Screw the job. Screw playing it safe.

Don't. You'll only set yourself up for another letdown.

She crushed the little spark of hope before it could grow. Life had taught her better. People didn't stick around for her. No matter how hard she tried to be likable, helpful, whatever they needed she always ended up alone. Used up and forgotten.

She'd started life as trash, literally. Abandoned days after she was born, left naked in a cardboard box with just a thin blanket. Starving, half-frozen. The system took her in, but nobody ever took her home for good.

Babies were supposed to be snatched up quickly. Not her. She bounced through foster homes until she aged out at eighteen. Every time a new couple came to look, she'd put on her best dress, smile her biggest smile, pray this time someone would choose her. The caseworkers always said she was sweet, well-behaved. But she was invisible. Unwanted.

She never acted out, never gave anyone a reason to send her back sooner. Some homes were decently quiet, at least. A few weren't great, but being overlooked kept her safe from worse things. She'd heard the stories from other kids. She didn't have any scars like that. Just emptiness.

Elara shook off the memories, grabbed the coffee pot, and plastered a smile on her face as she made the rounds. She'd gotten good at faking it over the years.

A few customers thanked her, and left decent tips. But even now, as an adult, she blended into the background. Plain face, plain life. Curvy in ways that didn't turn heads the right way, no perfect hourglass, just hips that spread and thighs that touched. Nice didn't get you noticed; it just made you easy to take advantage of.

Had Rowan already forgotten her face? He probably caught falling trays for anyone. It didn't mean anything special.

Was she ugly? Some flaw she couldn't see? She pushed the spiral away and focused on wiping tables, refilling salts, anything to keep moving.

The evening dragged on. Her feet throbbed from hours on the cracked linoleum. A quick glance at the clock past seven. Joe locked the doors at seven sharp, no matter how many regulars begged to linger. Most nights he was shut in his office, hunched over ledgers, twitchy as hell, like he expected trouble to come knocking any minute.

She couldn't wait to get out of there. She hurried to the staff room with the other waitresses, kicking off her work shoes and digging comfy sneakers from her bag. Joe had this rule of not taking uniforms home. Saturday nights he collected them all, washed them himself, had them folded and waited for the next shift.

It creeped her out a little, handing over clothes he'd touched. He wasn't that bad, she told herself. Just pushy.

She'd just laced up when Joe's voice cut through the chatter. "Elara. Need a word."

The other girls shot her sympathetic looks as they filed out. Joe ignored them completely.

Her stomach knotted. "Sure, Joe. What's up?"

"My office." He jerked his head toward the back.

Her pulse picked up. He gave her that slow once-over again, eyes lingering. No disgust there she knew she had curves: full chest, rounded hips, thighs that filled out her jeans. She liked her body fine; it worked, it was hers. Just wasn't the kind that landed on magazine covers.

She slung her bag over her shoulder and followed him, hoping whatever this was wouldn't cross a line. She actually kind of liked the job, the steady hours, the small-town rhythm. For once, she wanted something to stick to a place to belong, maybe even someone who wouldn't walk away.

She tried not to get her hopes up. But deep down, a tiny piece of her still believed in happy endings.