Laughing again, he nodded. “No hills.”
“Then I’ll do my share.”
On the very short bike ride to a little diner just one street up from the water, Presley counted eight people who said hello to Beckett. It was barely tenA.M.She worked with over a hundred people at the hotel, about twenty-five on any given shift, and that many people barely greeted her by the end of the day.
They parked the tandem in front of Pete’s Place, a retro-style diner that reminded Presley of her used-to-be-favorite pie shop. There were a couple of other bikes in the rack, but the tandem stuck out the farthest by a long shot.
“Everyone in this town is so nice,” Presley said as she unclipped her helmet. The short bike ride wasn’t nearly as bad as she’d worried it would be.
Beckett hung both of their helmets on the handlebars. He laughed,glanced at the diner doors. “Funny timing on you saying that. You might change your mind shortly.”
A couple came out of the diner, hand in hand. “I’m not going back,” the woman said, all but stomping down the three concrete steps.
“You say that every week.” The guy nodded at Beckett and Presley as he followed the woman.
“Am I missing something?” Presley looked through the diner window, but a checkerboard pattern was painted on the lower half, making it hard to see much.
Beckett took her hand. “Best breakfast in town. Pete’s an amazing chef. He’s a bit rough around the edges. He’s got a big heart, but his words aren’t always—how should I put it?—measured.” He held the door open for her.
She walked into the smell of vanilla and deliciousness. Seriously, something smelled incredible. Her stomach rumbled while her brain conjured images of funnel cakes and county fairs. She immediately wanted waffles with a side of pancakes.
A curly-haired waitress in a T-shirt and jeans waved from the cash register even as loud voices shouted from behind the pass bar.
“No one is stopping you from leaving,” a burly voice said.
“You’d be sorry if I did,” a flippant, clearly female voice replied.
A man’s face appeared in the rectangular opening between the front of house and the kitchen. He looked like a cross between a biker and a grumpy Santa Claus.
“Sorry you didn’t go sooner,” the guy said. His dark hair had patches of gray that matched the gray of his beard.
“Hey, Pete,” Beckett called, lifting his hand as he nudged Presley toward one of the booths along the window.
“Hot Mountain Man,” the man said.
Beckett groaned, but the waitress and chef shared a laugh. Presley bit back on hers as Beckett led her to a table. “Hey, Annabelle,” he said to the woman cashing out a customer. The customer left, the bells over the door jingling.
“Hey, Becks. Be right with you.”
Presley started to slide into the booth but was caught off guard by the tabletop.
Beckett pressed his hand to her lower back. “I thought you’d like this.”
He was clearly referring to the way the tabletop had been painted to resemble Van Gogh’sStarry Night. She ran her hand over the slightly textured surface, her breath stuck in her throat.
“This is incredible.” Instead of sitting down, she glanced around. To the left of the door were eight booths, four by the windows, four across the aisle. Same to the right of the entrance, with a long countertop at the front. There were two customers at the end of the counter, a single person sitting in the booth farthest from them, and a couple on the other side as well.
All eight of the tabletops on their side depicted famous paintings. Monet’sWater Lilies, a Picasso abstract of a woman’s face, Andy Warhol’s Marilyns, and several she recognized though she couldn’t name the artists.
“A newcomer,” the waitress named Annabelle said, menus under one of her arms as she leaned against one of the padded booths, watching her take it all in. “Gets them every time.”
Beckett slid into theStarry Nightbooth. Presley turned to face him and the waitress, whose hand was resting on theMona Lisa.
“This is incredible. Who makes them?” She desperately wanted to see the rest of the tabletops but resisted. After breakfast. By then, hopefully the other side would be clear of customers.
“It started when Pete and Gwen’s daughter used acrylic on that table Beck’s sitting at. She was only five at the time. She goes to art school in New York now. Instead of getting mad at her, Gwen, who’s also an artist, showed her how to make it into something special.”
Presley slid into the booth, across from Beckett. “What about the rest of them?”
