When I step inside the glass door, there’s a white piece of notebook paper on a podium to write your name and the number in your party. I’ve missed the lunch crowd, so there’s no one in the waiting area and no names left open on the list. Green vinyl booths line both side walls, and there are several empty tables mixed in with the few taken up by older folks drinking coffee. An honest-to-God lunch counter with stools runs along the back section of the restaurant.
A woman in jeans, cowboy boots, and a green polo shirt withHome Cookin’embroidered on the breast comes toward me.
“How many in your party?”
“Just one, thanks.”
“Do you want a seat at the counter, or would you like a table or booth?”
“A booth would be great.”
She pulls a plastic menu, a paper place mat, and napkin-wrapped silverware out of the three wooden holders on the paneled half wall next to the waiting-list stand. “Follow me right this way.”
I trail after her, impressed by the way her Levi’s hug her curves without causing the dreaded muffin top. I have to spend big dollars on jeans to ensure the same effect.
“You can have a seat right here. Great view of the main drag through town, so you can do some people watching.”
It also has a great view of Logan’s repair shop, such that I can see his truck parked around the side.
“Thanks, this is perfect.” I look up at her name tag. “I appreciate it, Emmy.”
“Can I get you something to drink?”
“A skinny caramel latte would be great.”
Her eyebrows wing up to her hairline. “I’m afraid that’s a forty-five-minute drive. In this town, you’ve got coffee and hot chocolate, unless you want one of those instant cappuccino drinks out of the machine at the gas station, but I hear that’s all sugar and chemicals.”
“Do you have Diet Coke?”
She nods. “Of course.”
As she walks off, I can hear her mutter, “Skinny caramel latte ... where does that girl think she is?”
I study the menu, deciding to skip the chicken fried steak because I have absolutely no idea what the hell it is, and instead choose a Caesar salad with chicken.
A different woman comes to the table with my Diet Coke and to take my order. Her name tag says Darlene, and she’s all business with her curly short dark brown hair.
“Dressing on the side?” she asks, beating me to my last request.
“Yes, please.” I pause. “How did you know?”
She gives me a slow once-over. “You look like the type.” Darlene turns on a heel and heads back to put in my order.
I brush off her comment and stare out the window as what seems like a parade of trucks pass by.Does every man in this town own a pickup truck? And when did that become so sexy?
I’m sure there’s only one answer for that, and it’s all Logan Brantley’s fault.
Emmy’s voice cuts through the quiet chatter in the room. “I said I wanted his lunch ready in ten minutes. Do you want the man to starve?”
The door chimes again, and a woman with a killer fishtail braid strides in and up to the counter with the biggest travel mug I’ve ever seen. It must fit a half gallon of whatever she puts in it.
“Can I get a large coffee to go?”
Emmy turns around and eyes her. “That stuff is going to kill you someday, Julianne. You should really lay off the caffeine.”
“Save the concern for someone who cares, Emmy.” She twists the lid off the mug, and Emmy takes it from her before turning away to fill it up with an entire carafe of coffee.
Julianne, a woman I haven’t yet met, slides some money across the counter and replaces the lid.