Page 27 of Egg Me On
He nodded, moving toward the door. Then paused, glancing back at me with an uncharacteristically gentle expression. "For what it's worth, I've known Cash for years. Never seen him share his tent before. Or let anyone within a million miles of his bike. He rides alone, does everything alone. It’s kind of nice to see someone break through."
Before I could formulate a response, Dylan was gone, the food truck door swinging shut behind him. I stood frozen, spatula gripped in my fist, his words echoing in my head.
I turned back to my grill, focusing on the familiar routine of heating it to the perfect temperature. I wouldn't cry. Not here. Not now. Not over a man who couldn't even look me in the eye after fucking me senseless all weekend.
But as I cracked fresh eggs into the sizzling pan, I couldn't help glancing toward the shop, hoping for a glimpse of tattoos and amber eyes that had seen me at my most vulnerable—and walked away.
The morning rush hit like a tsunami. Mondays were like that sometimes, and the line stretched across the parking lot by eight-thirty. I threw myself into the rhythm of cooking with manic energy, cracking eggs with enough force to make yolks explode, chopping vegetables like they'd personally offended me.
"Careful there, chef." A regular customer—older guy with a gray beard who always ordered the Western with extra hot sauce—nodded toward the grill where my omelet was starting to smoke.
"Shit, sorry." I flipped the ruined eggs onto a plate and started fresh. "Head's not in the game today."
"Don’t blame you. I’m tired after the campout, too," he said, grinning. “Good times.”
"Something like that," I muttered, sliding his correctly cooked breakfast sandwich across the counter. "Extra hot sauce."
My hands wouldn't stop trembling. I'd already broken three eggs, spilled an entire carton of milk, and burned myself twice—all things that never happened when I was working. The food truck was my domain, the one place where I was completely in control. Until now.
I kept glancing toward the shop, heart skipping painfully every time the door opened. A few times, I caught glimpses of Cash—his dark head bent over a motorcycle, his distinctive silhouette as he crossed from one bay to another. Each sighting was a sucker punch to my solar plexus, leaving me breathless and dizzy.
The line finally thinned around ten, giving me a moment to breathe. I leaned against the counter, pressing my forehead to the cool metal surface. My skin felt too tight, like I might crawl out of it at any moment.
"You look like shit."
I jerked upright to find Silas leaning in the service window, arms crossed over his broad chest. His expression was neutral, but hiseyes were sharp, assessing. Was everyone in the damn FRMC going to stop by to check on me?
"Thanks," I replied dryly. "Just what every food service worker wants to hear."
"Rough morning?" he asked, though the quirk of his eyebrow suggested he already knew the answer.
I shrugged, busying myself with wiping down the already-clean counter. "Nothing unusual. What can I get you?"
"The usual." He drummed his fingers against the counter. "Cash is having a hard day, too."
The egg carton I'd been reaching for tumbled from my hands. I managed to catch it before it hit the floor, but not before Silas noticed my reaction. I felt heat flood my face, betraying me further.
I cracked an egg with too much force, shell fragments falling into the bowl. "Fuck," I muttered, fishing them out with trembling fingers.
"He's been watching you all morning," Silas said quietly.
My head snapped up. "What?"
Silas nodded toward the shop. "Every time the door opens. Every time someone approaches your truck. He's watching. Maybe he’swaiting for you to do something at the same time that you’re waiting for him to do something, you know? And you’re both left waiting."
I followed his gaze across the lot. Through the large windows of the garage, I could see the shadow of Cash standing beside a dismantled motorcycle. As if sensing our attention, he looked up and turned our way.
For one breathless moment, everything else fell away—the noise of the food truck, Silas's knowing presence, the entire parking lot. Just me and Cash, connected by a look that contained all the hunger and heat of our weekend together.
Then he turned away, shoulders stiffening as he bent over the motorcycle, the connection broken as suddenly as it had formed.
My chest ached like he'd reached across the lot and physically ripped something out of me. I turned back to the grill, blinking rapidly against the stinging in my eyes.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, voice a little too high-pitched.
Silas's expression softened. "Cash isn't great with... feelings. Or people, generally." He accepted the wrapped sandwich I handed him. "But he doesn't share his bike. With anyone. Ever."
I swallowed hard. That was the second time someone had told me that this morning. Had they planned the meddling together?"Well, there's a first time for everything, right? And probably a last."
