When the server brings over a menu, I take a second to look over the options, but my stomach is already set on something heavy and comforting.
“Chicken-fried steak, please.Extra gravy.And coffee—lots of it.”
She laughs, scribbles on her pad, and disappears toward the kitchen.
I sink back against the chair, letting the midday bustle of the diner settle around me.My phone buzzes against the laminate tabletop.
Buf: Call me.Now.
I sigh, already bracing for the onslaught.I talked to her early this morning after a restless night of barely any sleep, giving her the rundown on my first encounter with “The Mad One,” the away game, and the aftermath.
She already had all the juicy details of the “clash of the titans” at the Grill from that first afternoon, and she knew exactly where I was heading today.
I dial her number, and she answers before the first ring ends.
“Finally.”Her voice bursts through the line—fast, sharp, and predictably dramatic.“I’ve been dying over here.Did you talk to him?Did he apologize?Do I need to drive across the country to kick his fine coach booty?”
A laugh slips out of me.“We talked.”
“And?Give me the tea.Full spill.”
“He apologized.Things got… clearer.Still tense, but better.”
“Better as in ‘we won’t glare at each other in public,’ or better as in ‘I can now picture the two of you kissing in the gym’?”
“Buffy.”
“What?I’m asking for a scale.”
I swallow a grin, my gaze drifting to the parking lot.“Somewhere in the middle.”
A delighted gasp crackles through the speaker, nearly blowing out my eardrum.“Ohhh, the middle is fertile ground.I can practically smell the scandal from here.”
“Stop.I’m on assignment, Buf.I’m writing a profile, not auditioning forThe Bachelorette.”I pick at a loose thread on my sleeve, trying to sound more professional than I feel.
“Funny.You know who’d be all over this, right?He’d be telling you to go for it, conflict of interest be damned.”
I nod even though she can’t see me, a faint, bittersweet ache tugging at my chest.“Yeah, Cary would already have the wedding trek mapped out and a ‘Property of the Pit Crew’ shirt ordered for you.The two of you would be relentless.The tag-team from hell.”
She giggles, the sound bright and sharp, and for a second, I can almost see her glowing face.Her laughter peters out, thinning into the air until a heavy, familiar silence balloons between us.It’s the kind of quiet that usually has a third voice cutting through it.
“He really would’ve loved the fire suit,” she whispers.
I trace a circle in the condensation on my water glass.“He would’ve tried to steal the car.”
A small laugh carries over the line.“Seriously, though, you okay?”
“I think so.”The words come out quiet.I almost don’t recognize my own voice.“We’re not done navigating whatever this is, but at least we’re not stuck in no-man’s-land.”
“That’s progress.”
I snort, the sound cutting off abruptly as the server slides a plate onto the table.It’s a literal mountain of golden, crispy battered steak and mashed potatoes, the whole thing drowning in a lake of gravy.
My pulse skips—possibly from too much talk of Hartley, but more likely from the impending cholesterol.I mouth a silentthank youto the server, my eyes already surveying the savoury landscape of my lunch.
“I meant it in a purely journalistic sense.”Buffy sighs dramatically like I’ve personally offended her.“Get your head out of the gutter.”
“Right.What are we calling it?Journalistic stripping.”The mental image of his fire suit coming off—of what’s under it—sends a warm, unwelcome swoop through my gut.I slide the fork into the gooey potatoes, the steam rising like a delicious veil.“I’m a professional.So what if he’s attractive?—”