Chapter 1
My grandmother always said the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. With the man on the other side of the diner counter from me it might be easier to go through the fourth and fifth ribs.
Every Wednesday Grant Caldwell the third ordered chocolate chip pancakes with extra butter and real maple syrup and ate them like he was being force-fed sand dollars. Never a smile, never any joy.
“Why doesn’t he look at his phone while he’s eating like every other normal person?” Theresa muttered to me as she bustled past to grab the coffee pot. She bumped my hip on purpose when I didn’t give an actual answer to her rhetorical question.
I had been too busy staring at the sheer masculine perfection of him. His dark short hair, bright blue eyes, and strong jaw were enough to tempt the average woman. Add in a tidy beard, very broad shoulders in an impeccable suit, and a red power tie, and I was fighting the constant urge to grab that tie by the knot and kiss the bejeesuz out of him.
For six months he’d been sitting there looking hot, and for six months my curiosity (and very naughty crush) had been growing. I didn’t want a way into his heart so much as I wanted a way into his bed.
I gave Theresa a warning look. She wasn’t exactly a woman with a soft voice. He was going to hear her.
But she was right. He never swiped on his phone or read a book or played with his napkin. He was always still and ate with singular determination, while ignoring my super obvious and very juvenile attempts to flirt with him. I’m an actress (you can’t quite call it paid, but I’m working on it) so I’m not subtle. I’m frankly over-the-top. I know this about me and I embrace it.
I had tried food innuendos.
What else can I get you? Wink, wink.
You don’t mind getting sticky, do you?
I see you have quite an appetite.
He never flirted back, sticking to noncommittal replies.
There was nothing from him when I sang either. That was the schtick in the diner. Aspiring and part-time actors waiting tables while struggling to break into a Broadway (or any) show. We sang, sometimes at the diners’ request, other times just to liven up a quiet shift and hopefully beef up our tips. I had positioned myself in front of him on several Wednesdays singing my heart out from upbeat Disney songs to Les Miserable to a modern interpretation of “Hello” by Lionel Richie. I mean, Lionel Richie, people. Hello. That should have been worth a raised eyebrow or two but he just sat and ate and looked so damn beautiful that it hurt.
I wanted him like peanut butter wants jelly. Smashed together until there was no pulling us apart.
Yep. He was that hot.
And I was dressed like prude Sandy in Grease—ponytail, poodle skirt, bobby socks and all. It’s a uniform, not a fashion choice. In my off-hours, I lean toward Slutty Sandy, minus the cigarette.
“I think he meditates,” I told her under my breath, turning my back to him so he couldn’t hear me.
“I think he’s a cyborg. He has no response to normal stimuli.”
That made me laugh. I grabbed my latest order and hoisted my tray. “Watch this.”
In six months I had learned there was only one way to get Grant Caldwell to actually smile. Having creeped on his platinum credit card on day one or maybe two I had made note of his pretentious name. It seemed super fitting for him. He wore that name as well as his suit. It also sparked an instant correlation in my mind.
I sailed past him with my tray and cheerfully called out, “Hi, Grant!”
He tried not to smile but I could see the corner of his mouth tugging upward against his will. He shook his head a little. “Hi, Leah.”
Yes, I had creeped on his credit card, but months ago he’d also creeped on my name badge. Normal, right? But it still gave me a thrill that he’d made note of my name. Which, you know, is right in his sightline. It wasn’t like he’d gone out of his way. But he used it. It felt like a victory of epic proportions for a man who appeared to have zero emotions.
I’m an optimist. I had to be, given the amount of audition rejections I’d gotten. So Grant using my name was all I needed to think that given another six months, we might actually have a conversation. In about five years maybe we would graduate to sex, which was honestly the goal. Have I mentioned he was hot?
The first two times I’d called out “Hi, Grant!” for no apparent reason, he had been puzzled. Theresa had been dying laughing. But once I’d explained to him that I was channeling Goldie Hawn in Overboard and that it was the greatest rom-com ever, he’d appeared curious.
I’d bet a whole weeks’ worth of tips he’d gone home to what I assumed was an expensive and masculine apartment with sleek electronics and had watched the movie.
Because the next week he’d smiled.
And then I couldn’t stop myself from repeating it every week.
Because when he smiled, he went from damn good looking to holy shit hot.
He was a challenge. A nut to crack.
I was nothing if not determined. Or maybe relentless was a better word. Again, how else could I survive in New York City, trying to be a paying stage actress, which is basically an oxymoron? I had arrived in Manhattan at eighteen, starry-eyed and hungry for success. Eight years later I think hungry was just more accurate. But I wasn’t going to give up.
After I tended to a table of tourists with rowdy kids and an elderly couple, I passed back by the bar, where Grant always sat. He handed me his credit card in a practiced rhythm between us. When he was done eating, he always got antsy to go and I knew not to keep him waiting. His fingers would drum on the countertop.
I knew nothing about him other than his name and that he had a whole closet full of tailored suits. And that he sort of, maybe, liked chocolate chip pancakes. But even that was doubtful.
Behind the counter I ran his card, then put it down with a flourish. “You have a happy hump day.”
I waited for him to say thanks, ignoring my cheesy comment as he always did.