Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
He chuckled. “Just like your mother, telling me what to do.”
“Because we know what’s good for you,” I said, taking him by the arm and helping him to his feet. I didn’t miss the way he winced as his back straightened up. Or the fact that he looked a little pale beneath his olive complexion. “Now go. Sun and fun await.”
But instead of heading for the door, he caught me in his arms and began to slow dance, crooning “It Had To Be You” in my ear.
“Dad,” I said, laughing, “what are you doing?”
“I’m dancing with my favorite girl.”
Smiling, I eased him toward the door. “It’s time to go. Exit stage left, please.”
“Okay, okay.” He released me from his arms. “You’re sure you can handle things here?”
“Yes, Dad. Moe’s Diner can survive ten days without Moe.” I took him by the shoulders, turned him around and steered him out of the office. “Now get lost.”
When my folks were gone, I went into the bathroom to wash the chalk off my hands. In the mirror, I studied the woman wearing the pink diner uniform and remembered when she’d worn a white chef’s coat. How she’d bleached it relentlessly to keep it pristine. How she’d eventually shoved it in a dumpster the day she left New York, along with her crushed spirit, broken heart, and failed dreams.
After drying my hands, I checked to make sure that the ladies’ room was stocked with toilet paper, soap, and paper towels. Then I knocked on the men’s room door and checked that restroom as well. On my way back toward the counter, I made sure each table and booth had syrup, ketchup, mustard, relish, salt, pepper, and napkins in the dispenser. When I was finished, I glanced up at the framed photos on the wall—they were a mix of vintage black-and-white snapshots of famous people standing next to my grinning grandparents, who’d opened Moe’s Diner back in the fifties, and autographed headshots of celebrities who’d eaten here in the following decades.
One headshot in particular caught my eye. It always did.
Dashiel Buckley, star of Malibu Splash.
Despite my melancholy mood just moments ago, I chuckled with satisfaction at the mustache, horns, and pointy little beard I’d drawn with a Sharpie on the glass over his handsome mug.
Served him right—no one should be that good-looking.
The photo was black and white, so you couldn’t even appreciate the indigo blue of his eyes or the golden hue of his skin. Plus, it was just a headshot, so there was no way to admire his broad shoulders, his bronzed chest, his rippling abs. It was all on full display in every episode of Malibu Splash—and I’d secretly watched every season multiple times.
But I’d never admit to that. I was still mad at him for rejecting me the night I’d finally decided I’d crushed on him long enough, and tonight was the night.
The night I’d get him alone. The night I’d offer him my virginity and insist that he take it. The night he’d finally realize he was crazy about me too, and it didn’t matter that he was moving to L.A. to be an actor and I was just a teenage diner waitress . . . what mattered was our everlasting love.
Of course, that’s not how it went down.
I mean, parts one and two happened almost exactly as I imagined them. It was a Saturday night. I was sleeping over at the Buckleys’ house, which I did all the time. I waited until the house was dark and silent. Until Mabel was asleep. Until I heard Dash come in from his job as a barback at the Pier Inn. Until the time on my phone screen said 2:22 a.m., which I thought would be lucky.
With a pounding heart, I carefully slipped out of Mabel’s bedroom and tiptoed down the hall. Opened Dash’s bedroom door—it didn’t even creak—closed it behind me, and timidly approached his sleeping form on the bottom bunk. (The top one, which had been Devlin’s growing up, was empty.)
“Dash,” I whispered.
He didn’t wake up right away. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw that he was sleeping shirtless, and the covers were only at his waist. The sight of his bare chest thrilled me—in a few moments, I would feel it pressed against mine.
“Dash.” I sat on the edge of his bed and placed a tentative hand on his bicep. His skin was smooth and warm.
“Huh?” His eyes opened, and he blinked a couple times. “Ari?”
“Yes.” Summoning every ounce of courage I had, I leaned over and pressed my mouth to his.
At first, he kissed me back—I would swear on my life he did. Fueled by his open lips and the yearning of my lovesick heart, I pulled back the covers and slipped in beside him. Gingerly, I placed my hand on his hot, hard stomach and slid it down inside the elastic band of his—