The Anti-Hero (The Goode Brothers, #1)(3)
The young woman behind the booth greets me with wide eyes and a flirtatious smile.
“Mr. Goode,” she chimes happily as she picks up a menu.
“Good morning, Veronica,” I reply with a grin.
She blushes as her gaze lingers on my face for a moment too long, clearly chuffed by the fact that I remembered her name. Then, she spins toward the bar, and her expression falls when she notices that every single stool is occupied, including the one on the corner that I always take.
“I’m…sorry,” she stammers, but I hold up a hand to stop her.
“It’s okay, Veronica. I can wait.”
“I’m really sorry,” she repeats, looking apologetic, but I shake my head at her as I quietly ease into the corner of the crowded waiting area, pulling out my phone in hopes that it will hide my face enough to not be noticed here.
Apparently, Sal’s has picked up in popularity over the last few months. It doesn’t help that Austin is filled to the brim with trendy brunch spots—it would appear that greasy spoon diners are back in because every hipster tourist or college kid within a thirty-mile radius has started packing in the tiny restaurant each weekend.
My regular Saturday morning diner.
The only saving grace is that most hipster tourists and college kids don’t know who I am. Unless their parents tuned
into my father’s Sunday morning program, they don’t know Adam Goode from Adam Levine.
And my Saturday morning breakfast is the only time I like it that way.
Any other day or time, I’d be happy to smile for selfies or sign their King James Versions, but this is my time. This is when I get my writing done, where I can really focus and create my best sermons. I usually watch recordings of old sermons on my phone before digging into writing my own.
I have my own office at the church, but I prefer working elsewhere. When I’m here, surrounded by the white noise chatter of the breakfast patrons, I feel as if I can really tap into something deeper.
Someday I might not have this option. I’ll be too busy running the church instead of just writing sermons for it.
Eventually, it will be me at that pulpit on Sunday mornings. But for now, it’s still him.
So, until then…waffles and coffee.
“Just one?” a warm voice chirps from the hostess stand, and I glance up from my phone to see a mess of pink waves on a petite frame standing near the front. “It’ll be about thirty to forty-five minutes.”
The woman’s shoulders sag as the look of defeat washes over her entire stance. “Seriously? I just got off the late shift and I’m famished. Can I put in an order to go?”
The girl grimaces. “It’ll probably take that long to fill the order, to be honest.”
“Fuck my life,” the woman groans.
My eyes subtly rake over her body, from her brightly colored hair down to her black boots. She’s not wearing much, exposing her belly, back, and limbs all covered in ink. Various tattoos are stamped across her body like someone was bored in class and spent their time doodling on her sun-kissed skin.
The black crop top she’s in stops somewhere along the middle of her back, and those blue jean cutoffs leave a gap in
the high waistline like she bought a size too big.
Wincing, I curse myself for staring at the woman’s ass like some perverted gawker. Biting my bottom lip, I turn my attention back to my phone. I’m watching the broadcast from last year, a sermon about morality playing in the AirPod stuffed in my left ear.
A blur of pink enters my periphery as the tattooed girl takes a seat on the bench next to me. I glance her way, shooting her a polite smile before staring back at my phone.
The girl lets out a sigh, followed by a soft moan as she rubs her forehead. I catch sight of her bloodred nail polish and the tiny tattooed symbols on each of her delicate, long fingers.
“Mr. Goode,” the hostess calls sweetly from the stand. My eyes widen as I glance around to see who might have heard her call me by my last name, but the only ones who pause are an elderly couple sitting on the opposite bench.
I smile at them before moving to the front.
“Your seat is ready,” the hostess says, clutching the menu to her chest. But as she steps toward the empty seat, waiting for me to follow her, my feet don’t move. There’s a right and a wrong in this scenario, and even as my stomach growls with hunger, I know what I have to do.
With an internal grimace, I turn back toward the pink-haired girl on the bench. Her eyes are closed as her head rests against her fist, but I step back toward her, tapping her gently on the arm to wake her.
As her eyes pop open, she stares at me in shock.
“Take my seat,” I say with a huff.
“What?”
“A seat at the bar just came open. Take it.”
“Seriously?” she asks, scrutinizing me like this is some sort of scam.
“Yes, seriously.” I step back and hold out a hand, showing her the waiting hostess, whose smile has turned tense.
The pink-haired girl stands up hesitantly before moving toward the empty stool. “Thank you,” she calls back, her eyes meeting mine for a brief second before she sits down and turns her attention to the menu.
I take my place back in the corner, watching my phone as crowds of people come and go in front of me.
When the sermon comes to an end, the app immediately loads the next video. Our services are nationally televised and recorded, available to the whole country on nearly any streaming platform they prefer—satellite radio, TV broadcast, or online. For all I know, people in this very restaurant are tuning in to their own personal AirPod sermons.