From behind, I see a broad-shouldered, grey-haired man in my section wearing a seen-better- days fedora.

“Hi, I’ll be serving you.” I fumble around at my back pocket, searching for my order pad before looking up. Something about him grabs and holds my attention. Have I met him before? Seen him before?

“Were you asking for me?” I frown and tilt my head to study him closer. “One of the waitresses thought…”

My words trail off while my brain catches up to what my eyes are trying to tell me. Those full lips under that salt-and-pepper moustache. The tanned skin pulled taut over sharp and high cheekbones. The long, unlined, sensitive hands resting on the table. Finally, grey eyes snaring mine and waiting for me to figure it out.

“Rhyson?”

He jerks a quick look around the dining room before bringing his eyes back to me.

“Wow. Why’d I even bother with the disguise?” he asks. “Say my name a little louder. I don’t think TMZ heard you.”

My hand flies up to my mouth, half in surprise. Half to catch the giggle bubbling up from my throat. I’m partly laughing because he looks ridiculous now that I know it’s him and not some middle-aged stalker. And partly because—I can barely admit this to myself—he was asking Misty for me. He asked San about me. He’s here for me.

When I’m around Rhyson, all my numb places spark and fizzle. The match has been struck again, and all the dark corners light up just because he’s grinning at me. This guy is such a threat to my focus, my ambitions, my goals. The grin he made on my mouth melts little by little until only a straight line remains.

“I haven’t changed my mind.”

His smile vanishes, and he shifts his eyes to the menu as if he’s actually here to eat.

“Maybe I’ve changed mine.” He looks up at me. “Aren’t you going to tell me the specials?”

“Hey, Kai!” One of the truckers booms from across the room, impatiently waving his empty beer mug. I hate wearing a nametag sometimes.

I look back to Rhyson, whose eyes have narrowed to silver slits on the rude trucker with his pants on fire.

“Specials are on the back,” I tell Rhyson over my shoulder, headed for Mr. Empty. “I’ll take your order in a second.”

That second turns into ten minutes. Between the table of truckers, the team of volleyballers, and the slow cook in the kitchen, it’s the worst night for Rhyson freakin’ Gray to show up at The Note.

I finally bustle over to him, blowing at the hair flopping into my eyes.

“I’m so sorry.” I plop a glass of water with lemon down in front of him, mortified when it splashes onto his hands. “Oh gosh. I’m so sorry.”

I can’t stop apologizing. Mainly because I can’t stop screwing up.

“Kai.” He lays one strong hand over my trembling fingers mopping up the water. “It’s fine.”

I look at him, something I realize I haven’t allowed myself to do very much of since I realized he wasn’t a senior citizen. The intensity of his grey eyes provokes a hot spring in my belly. A rush of fiery liquid that emanates to my fingers, to my toes, to my core.

I jerk my hand back and reach for the order pad.

“What’ll it be then?”

Even with my eyes fixed on the pad and pen poised to take his order, I feel the heat of his stare still trained on me. After a silence that extends a moment too far, he answers.

“Turkey burger and fries.”

I chew at my bottom lip and glance in the direction of the kitchen. Undecided and then decided.

I lean into his space, close enough to smell him, clean and masculine.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” I whisper, stealing a surreptitious whiff of him. “Get the bison. The turkey burger’s always dry. The bison is still lean and better for you, but the cook keeps it juicy.”

I step back and notice his lips twitching.

“Okay, bison burger it is.”

“And we actually have sweet potato fries. Better for you than the regular ones.”

“Don’t push it.” His eyes crinkle with his wide smile and good humor. “I’ll take my chances with regular fries.”

“Your funeral.” My face is serious, but my tone lightens.

“What time is your shift over?” Rhyson’s question snatches me out of the ease I’d fooled myself into.

“Um…” I glance at the clock, which has gone from interminable to warp speed since Rhyson arrived in disguise. “Like in thirty minutes.”

“Can I take you home?”

“Rhyson, I—”

“For the love of God, would you stop calling me that?” He looks over at the table of giggling girls taking selfies. “Or that pack of girls will be over here in about five seconds asking me to sign tits and take pictures.”

He looks so disgruntled. It’s the closest he’s actually looked to a grumpy old man since he arrived, so I can’t help but grin.

“Sorry, sir. I keep forgetting. I’m not used to these covert operations. Let me go put in your order.”

I turn to leave, but he catches my wrist in a firm but gentle grip.

“You didn’t answer my question.” He raises the brows I notice he didn’t bother to salt and pepper. “Can I take you home?”

My eyes fall to his fingers, strong and capable of magic, wrapped around my wrist. Working on my senses like I’m some simple arrangement he could play with his eyes closed. Only his eyes are wide open, watching me with unerring focus. I hope he doesn’t see me swallowing, because it’s perilously close to a gulp. I hope he can’t hear the party my heart is throwing in my chest. I hope the blood in my wrist isn’t Morse coding my frantic pulse to his fingers.

I hope I know what I’m getting into.

“Yeah, you can take me home.”