“Gwen’s been experimenting with other mediums. The ones on that side of the diner are now vinyl stickers of images,” Beckett said.
More grumbling, something about making substitutions to the menu, sounded from the kitchen. Presley’s eyes widened when she heard Pete call, “I’m the chef. Why can’t people just trust me that it comes best the way I say it does?”
The swinging door pushed forward, a tall woman with her hair bundled on top of her head coming through with two plates.
“Swear to God and the patron saint of diners, I’m going to beat you with your spatula, Peter,” the woman said.
Annabelle laughed, setting the menus on the table. “Don’t worry, she won’t,” she said to Presley. “Get you two some coffee?”
“Actually, could I have some orange juice, please?” Presley asked, curious how the waitress could be so sure. The other waitress’s tone suggested she’d really like to follow through and smack the chef.
“Of course. Beck?”
“Coffee, please,” he said, an amused grin brightening his face.
Presley traced her finger along the swirling groove of a star in the night as Annabelle went to get their drinks.
“Breakfast and a show,” she said.
“Yeah. Pete’s all bluster. Like a moody artist, only his medium is food. He’s actually pleasant when Gwen or Courtney, their daughter, are around. Half the time, I swear it’s mostly for the show. The customers sort of expect it now.”
The swinging door behind the counter flew open again and Pete came through. He wore a white chef coat and held a large glass in his hand. He was a big man, one who would be attractive in a silver fox sort of way if he wasn’t grumbling to himself.
Going to the soda fountain behind the counter, he pressed one of the buttons. Annabelle brought over their drinks, but Presley was too busy looking around and watching Pete from the corner of her eye to be ready to order.
“Pete makes the best waffles on the East Coast,” Beckett said.
“Damn right I do,” Pete called.
“It’s true,” Annabelle said.
“Sounds perfect,” Presley said.
Beckett ordered the same. When Annabelle walked away, Pete came to the side of their table.
“Beckett.”
Beckett smiled. “Pete. Pleasure as always. This is Presley Ayers. She’s staying at the lodge.”
His lips quirked. “Doing more than staying there from what I hear, hot guy,” Pete said.
“Now you’re a comedian?” Beckett frowned.
“I have my moments. How do you like the lodge, Presley?”
She glanced at Beckett, not sure why her cheeks felt warm. “It’s been a wonderful adventure.” There. That was safe. Didn’t reveal too much.
Presley couldn’t help herself. “Have any of your waitresses ever actually smacked you with your own spatula?”
Pete’s gaze narrowed a split second before a rough, rumbly laugh left his mouth.
Beckett nearly spit out his sip of coffee. “Holy shit, did you just laugh?”
“Shut up,” Pete said, his mouth flattening again, but Presley noted the slight sparkle in his gaze. “That one has.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “But she’s my younger sister, so it’s not a surprise, and to be fair, I probably deserved it.”
“No doubt you did,” Beckett said.
“I repeat, shut up,” Pete said, his tone almost friendly.
