Great Big Beautiful Life(53)

“You smell like dessert,” I tell him as we pull apart.

He visibly balks, frowning to himself, as he slides back onto his bench. “It’s Dr. Bronner’s.”

“Wow,” I say. “Utilitarian yet delicious.”

His facial expression softens on a laugh. It occurs to me that somehow, he thought you smell like dessert was a complaint, and not, as I personally suspect, a subconscious and involuntary come-on. “Got you coffee,” he says, pushing one of the mugs on the table toward me.

Our knees bump. We rearrange so that we’re sitting diagonally across from each other, rather than straight on. We’re not touching, but somehow I can still feel him. He has a presence like that, a magnetic field he carries with him always, but mostly tries to play off as a force field, a barrier to entry rather than an invitation.

“Thanks.” I take the coffee mug between my hands, the heat pleasantly juxtaposing the overzealous roar of the air-conditioning. I gesture toward his glass. “I’m concerned that your green tea is brown.”

“My green tea,” he says, “is sweet tea. Because the Atomic Café doesn’t ‘have it in that color.’ At least that’s what the server said.”

“Did she say it as a full sentence at least,” I ask, “or did she jump right into the middle?”

“Full sentence,” he says. “That’s one point for them, but Ray’s Diner is still winning.”

I take a sip of coffee, and I must make a face, because he says, “Okay, that’s one more point deducted right there, clearly.”

I look around at the neon-turquoise and pink light that lines the windows on the outside of the building, and the matching booths inside, the little jukeboxes at every table and the atomic age wallpaper slightly curling away from the interior walls. “It’s got good ambience though,” I say. “Why aren’t we at Ray’s?”

“I like to try as many diners as I can when I’m in a new place,” he says. “Compare them and find the best.”

“Ah. Of course.”

“Of course?” he says.

I shrug. “The journalist in you.”

“The Midwesterner in me,” he counters. “Always looking for the best deal.”

I hold up the wide rectangular menu. “Six ninety-nine for a steak, eggs, and toast. You can’t beat that.”

“I mean, you could, but you’d probably end up hospitalized,” he says.

The server comes by and takes our order. I go with the two-egg breakfast, and Hayden does the egg white omelet.

“I’m actually surprised you eat at places like this,” I say.

His brows pinch together. “Why?”

“Because even the doorknobs here are buttered,” I reply, “and you seem to be an exceptionally healthy eater.”

“Bad habit,” he says.

“Good habit, if my doctor is to be believed,” I argue.

“I just mean, I was raised that way,” he says. “Obsessively so. My mom used to be really health anxious, and she was that way with my brother and me when we were little. Just…really cautious.”

“Oh.” Now it’s my chance to frown. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to be critical. I just noticed—”

“No, I know,” he says. “It’s fine. Promise.”

After a beat, I say, “So I should probably stop leaving you big-ass croissants.”

He smiles at me. It’s kind of a rusty expression, but it still makes my heart flutter victoriously. “No,” he assures me. “Just so long as you’re not offended if I give some of them to Margaret.”

I faux gasp. “Uh-oh, Hayden. Looks like someone has to put a quarter in the M-word jar.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m not talking about work,” he says. “I just acknowledged her existence. That’s not breaking any rules.”

“Maybe none of yours,” I say.

A smirk pulls at his wide mouth. “Okay, fine.” He digs around in his jeans pocket and puts a handful of coins on the table.

“Not going to ask why you actually have quarters on hand,” I say, sliding two toward me. “Just going to assume you and whoever you currently work for are spending a lot of time at arcades.”

“That’s your prerogative,” he says.

I slip the quarters into the tabletop jukebox and flip until I find a winner. No one else in the place seems to be queuing up songs, because as soon as the fifties rockabilly number playing over the speakers ends, “Say You Will (Be Mine)” by Cosmo Sinclair starts playing.

“Oh, come on,” he says on a huff of laughter. “How is this not breaking a rule?”

“What are you talking about?” I say. “This song is a classic.”

“And you know who he wrote this for?” he asks.

I grin and slide my forearms across the table until they meet his. “No, who?”

He studies me as he works out his next play. I don’t back down either, holding his gaze fast.

The challenge building between us is starting to tip over into something else, a heat in his eyes, a pull in the center of my chest.

“Here you folks go.” The server plops our plates down beside us. Really plops them. Like probably gets them no closer than three inches from the tabletop before letting go. We jolt apart and take a beat to study our respective plates before tucking in.