“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.
The theme of this week is virtue, and I need inspiration from sermons in the past because, at the moment, nothing clever is coming to me. But some of these old speeches of his were written by his staff, and they lack appeal. They’re dull.
That’s why my father passed the sermon writing baton over to me. He says I phrase it all differently and in a way everyone can understand. He’s a bit old-fashioned, so he grew up on flowery prose and, frankly, boring-as-hell metaphors. But he wants to relate Leviticus to the Dallas Cowboys’ last big trade, and that’s what I’m here for.
“Mr. Goode,” a sweet voice calls, and I look up to find the hostess grinning at me. “Another seat at the bar is open.”
I smile at her, my stomach growling with the promise of hash browns and bacon, thankful that my wait wasn’t too much longer. Quickly following behind, my grin turns to a frown when I realize the empty barstool is just to the left of Miss Pink Hair herself.
Taking the seat next to her, I glance her way just as she looks up at me. There’s a nearly empty plate in front of her and a half-filled cup of coffee. There’s also more color to her cheeks now and a much livelier expression.
“Oh my god, it’s you,” she proclaims as I take my seat.
With a cordial grin on my face, I nod to her. I’m a little surprised she recognized me, if I’m being honest. She doesn’t seem like the kind to—
“You’re the one who gave me your seat. You are literally a fucking lifesaver. I was so hungry, I thought I was going to die.”
I look downward, momentarily humbled as I realize she recognizes me as the Good Samaritan who gave up his seat…
and not the son of Austin’s most prominent pastor.
“You’re feeling better, then?” I ask, without looking at her.
My eyes are still glued to my phone while I silently pray that she’s not the kind of person to indulge in too much small talk just because I was polite.
“Much. The biscuits and gravy here are good enough to bring someone back from the dead.”
“I agree. It was my pleasure. I’m glad you had a good breakfast.”
As I glance toward her, getting a good look at her up close, I notice she has her left nostril pierced, not once, but twice.
And a gold hoop hanging from the middle of her nose as well.
Then there’s another on the right side of her bottom lip. It’s a pity, really. She has a very nice nose.
And very nice lips. And very nice piercing blue eyes.
Honestly, it’s a perfect face overall—even with that tiny star tattoo hovering just over her cheekbone.
It’s wrong of me to be so judgmental, but if the girl wasn’t so covered by ink and metal, I might have noticed sooner just how beautiful she is.
The waitress comes by and takes my order of coffee and the waffle breakfast with a side of hash browns. Then I turn my attention back to my phone and try to focus on the sermon, looking for inspiration, but I keep getting distracted.
At first, I blame it on the lively conversation happening between the couple to my left, but in reality, it’s her every movement next to me on my right. There’s something about those nimble fingers and pierced face and exposed midsection that makes it nearly impossible to focus.
So I give up and place my phone on the counter, pulling the AirPod from my ear. Instead, I focus on pouring four half-and-half packets into my coffee. Then I let my eyes wander over to the red nails drumming on the counter as she finishes her breakfast. When she picks up the ketchup bottle from the metal stand on the counter, I watch in horror as she douses her scrambled eggs with it.
I let out a stifled laugh.
Her pink hair flips as she turns toward me. “Are you laughing at my breakfast?” There’s a hint of playfulness in her tone, such that it makes me feel comfortable with a little light teasing.
“I wouldn’t have given my seat to you if I knew you were going to desecrate those eggs.”
She laughs around a mouthful, covering her pretty pink lips with her fingers as she aims her humor-filled eyes at me.
“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” she mumbles, chasing down her bite with a sip of coffee.
“I’m fine, thanks.”
With a shake of her head, her expression fills with mischief. When our eyes meet for a moment, I realize she might take this for flirting.
When was the last time I really flirted with someone? The last few dates I’ve had were all awkward arrangements set up by friends or my mother. It’s possible that in the last five to ten years, I have completely lost my game.
Not that I should be flirting with this girl. There is zero interest on my part, and even if there was, I could only imagine my mother’s face if I brought home someone like this.
I remember what happened when Caleb introduced his wife to my mother and had to break it to her that she was a Lutheran.
The next thing I know, Pink Hair is grabbing my napkin-wrapped fork and pulling it out from the sticky paper holding it together.
“I’m telling you. You’re missing out.”
Then, to my utter shock, she stabs the fork into the untouched portion of her plate and holds it out to me. I could make a big deal about germs and her being a complete stranger and how inappropriate this is, but I’m too shocked and entertained to say no. Those sweet, nimble fingers of hers, holding the fork out to me, are too compelling for me to refuse.
So I lean forward and close my mouth around the repulsive bite of sweet ketchup-covered eggs. And it truly is repulsive, but the way she’s watching me is making it impossible to disappoint her. So I dab my napkin on the corner of my pursed lips and nod.