“I will.” She clearly doesn’t believe me, so I add with more conviction, “I will. I promise.”
“Good.” She nods. “Now, back to the mystery. How does he know?”
“Marina hasn’t said anything either. Who the hell else knows?” I’m not comfortable with the idea that somebody else knowing that I live remotely and there’s no one around for miles. I have a shotgun, but I’m not sure I will be able to use it. I know you’re supposed to point it at your target, but for heaven’s sake, I assume there’s a little more to it.
Freya’s face creases with concern. “I’ll ask Justin.”
“Can you? I’d feel so much better.” A mammoth size stone just fell off my chest at her offer.
“Sure thing. I don’t like you living alone out there anyway.” She waves off my concern of asking her too big of a favor.
“I'm not alone; I have Bob.” I smile.
Her brows furrow in confusion. “How is your vibrator going to protect you from a big hulky man?”
"That's Charlie!" I laugh. Charlie is Bella Swan's father from Twilight. He was so incredibly hot, and I got daddy issues. "Bob is my shotgun. So, I'm not alone, see? I live with two very powerful men.” I wiggle two fingers at her.
She laughs too, but her laughter is a little forced. She’s still concerned about my wellbeing, and that right there is one of the few reasons I’d be devastated if I leave. Or run away, to be precise.
She eats her breakfast and takes one to go for Alex. For the whole time she's been in Little Hope, she's always ordered one dish. One. The Lonely Kurt. Despite all my attempts to force her to try something else, she refuses. She says Kurt will be even lonelier if she does.
The rest of the day goes by without any major events, thank God. We usually close at seven, but during the weekdays, nobody will come for dinner, so I force Marina to go. I know she has a show that’s about to air. I begin getting ready to lock up when the door bursts open, and a glass of tall, dark, and handsome comes in. The very definition of those three. I usually like guys with sandy hair—fine,one guy—but since my last revelation, I need to switch my type. He wears a short-sleeve navy T-shirt and black jeans with rips on one knee. His arms are covered in tattoos, and I instantly sense my people.
"Hi! Sorry for bursting in, but my car just broke down, and my phone died. I forgot the charger, and everything here is fucking closed already, and—" He catches himself right before he, probably, covers our little town in shit and gives me a toothy smile. "I'll try again. I'm Archie. My car broke down on the road, and I need to use a phone.” The dimple on his right cheek totally does it for me. His jaw has a five o'clock shadow, and I'm melting a little in my spot.
“You can use mine,” I offer with a smile and completely forget what exactly I’m offering. At this point, I’d say everything.
“You’re a godsend.” He walks to the bar where I’m wiping the glasses. I drop the towel, grab my phone, and hand it to him.
“Do you know the phone number you need to call?”
He laughs. “I might be lucky because I just put my friend’s new number into my phone this morning and still remember it.”
“You’re in luck indeed. Besides 9-1-1, I don’t know any numbers anymore,” I confess shamefully.
“Yeah, twenty-first century.” He takes my phone, and his eyes linger on my tattoo sleeve. “Nice tats.”
“Thanks.” I feel my cheeks heating up.
"Never seen a similar design before."
“It’s mine.” I smile shyly. All my tattoos are of my own design. I have a person in Springfield, a neighboring town thirty minutes away, who inks them for me.
His brows shoot up. “Really?” He takes my hand. It's unexpected and too intimate for someone who just barged into the diner. Slowly, he moves my arm around, looking closely at my tattoo. "You ink yourself?" He gently traces the vines of the rose with the fingers of his other hand.
“No.” I gently pull my arm away, and he lets me go. “I know a guy who does a good carving.”
He smiles, and this time he offers me his own art. “I do mine, too.”
“You do designs too?”
“I own a parlor in Boston.” I relax at that. So he was indeed interested in my art, not creeping on my skin. “These,” he shows me his arms, “are mine.”
I look closer this time and see how truly captivating and detailed his tats are. “They are amazing.”
“Thanks.” He smiles, and my phone rings. Archie pushes it back to me—it’s an unknown number. I pick it up.
“Hello?” I say.
