Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Vinnie bypassed the marble counter and marched to the third booth on the left to inspect the new emerald leather upholstery, reminiscent of the funky color my dad had installed in the seventies.
I watched him run his fingers over the cool leather, unsurprised by the paralyzing wave of déjà vu. In a flash, I was sixteen again, flicking packets of artificial sweetener between the goalpost Ronnie made with his hands.
Vinnie’s right thigh and elbow were glued to mine, my heartbeat like a hummingbird’s wings, fast and furious. He was too close, yet not close enough.
My palms went clammy, my mouth dry. I sipped Coke and laughed a lot, hoping to appear normal when in fact, it took everything in me not to drop those stupid sugar packets and slip my hand under the table to cover Vinnie’s thigh.
He wanted me to touch him. I’d swear it. And I wanted it too. I wanted things I couldn’t make sense of in my head.
“Whatever happened to those tabletop jukeboxes?” he asked, pulling me from my reverie.
I tapped a few buttons on the industrial coffee machine and pulled two white mugs from an open shelf as he settled onto a barstool. “We sold them. Most of them didn’t work anymore, and the ones that did played the same two songs over and over. If I had to listen to ‘The Candy Man’ or ‘Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head’ one more time, I was gonna go fucking bonkers. You still take your coffee black?”
Vinnie gave a thumbs-up and turned to study the artistic photography on the wall, peppering me with questions about the photo gallery of Elmwood’s finest eating pancakes and burgers that used to hang in the entrance. I might have answered, but my mind was foggy at best.
My gaze stuttered to a halt, admiring his thick biceps and broad shoulders. And all that gorgeous ink. Vinnie was an elite specimen…a professional athlete who’d obviously taken extremely good care of his body and his—
Holy fuck. What was wrong with me?
I slid a cup across the counter, swallowing hard when he flashed a brilliant smile in thanks and lifted the cup to his full, sexy mouth. Geez, I had to get my shit together. Drooling over Vinnie Kiminski was not acceptable. No way, no how.
“You okay?” He sipped his coffee, eyeing me curiously over the rim of his mug.
“Yeah.” I cleared my throat. “I’m fine.”
“Good. This is nice.” Vinnie extended an arm as if to encompass the diner. “You still serve burgers and fries?”
“We do.” I pulled a paper menu from a shelf under the counter. “This is the regular menu. We have daily chef specials too. Last night Jean-Claude made coq au vin with herbed basmati rice, steamed spinach, and fresh bread. He was talking about osso buco tonight, but I won’t know for sure till he comes in with the printed specialty menu.”
I whistled appreciatively. “That sounds incredible. Where’d you find your chef?”
“Montreal.”
“Montreal?” he repeated. “What’s the story?”
Fair question. Montreal was close, but talented chefs didn’t clamor for gigs in sleepy New England towns just because, and Elmwood wasn’t a tourist destination. People came to visit friends or family members who’d inexplicably chosen to settle here. Or they took jobs nearby and found affordable housing in Elmwood.
Or they fell in love, but it didn’t work out, and the outsider stayed.
“JC is my ex.”
Vinnie lifted a brow. “Oh.”
I pasted a passable smile on my face and poured myself a cup of coffee. “So, Ronnie wants you to coach. And you said?” I prodded.
“I said I’d think about it, but I don’t know. It was practically my job to invoke terror on the ice—play dirty, protect my guys and the net, and do whatever was necessary to make sure the good guys won and the bad guys didn’t. I know how to do it, not teach it. Maybe you could talk him into taking my money.”
“You might have inherited your dad’s educator genes.”
Vinnie scoffed. “Doubtful.”
We sipped our coffee in silence, lost in our own thoughts.
“Are you staying with your dad?”
“No,” Vinnie replied. “He’s in London for the summer, so I suppose I could have, but I bought the Asburys’ old place. It’s private and it’s in good condition.”
The Asbury estate was more like a log cabin on steroids than a basic house. It was situated at the very edge of town, accessible via a winding dirt road, and surrounded by woods. The perfect spot for someone who needed a little privacy. But it was a lot of house for one person.
I didn’t say that, though. I went with, “I heard the Collinses redid the kitchen and bathrooms before they moved to Burlington last September.”
“Yeah, they did some nice work. You should come by and see it.”
Like that was ever gonna happen, I mused sarcastically.