track; their plans were permanently derailed.
Patrick downed the last of the contents in his bottle, the feelings of relaxation gone. He took this as a sign of punishment for even thinking about Amber. He didn’t even know her. What kind of person was she? He knew nothing about the dark-haired woman, other than she was sexy as hell, and had sprouted feelings of desire and need in him that had long been dormant. He knew the moment she had said she was moving to Birch Valley he was in trouble, big trouble, and he wasn’t sure he minded it all that much. Maybe it was the beer or sheer exhaustion that clouded his reasoning, but he wondered. What would it be like to be with someone else? He hadn’t asked himself that question before.
Chapter Five
Amber
Putting the apron on and standing in front of the grill, Amber was overcome with various emotions. She never thought she would be cooking at Herrick’s diner again, but this was important. After only having arrived a little more than two days ago, she had learned just how needed she really was here. She couldn’t help the stinging tears that threatened to spill as her thoughts traveled back to the first day she arrived. She had been told that her father wasn’t feeling well, but the details had been left out, and now she knew why. Her father had cancer.
Letting out a heavy sigh, Amber was thankful for the distraction of cooking, even if her heart wasn’t in it. She had always loved cooking; food brought so much comfort and joy to people. That’s why, when her husband died and the joy was drained from her, she had no desire to cook anything, at least from scratch. Everything was either take-out, in a cardboard box, or frozen. Dylan had quit asking her to make his favorite dishes, as her answer had always been the same. Amber would make an excuse, find some sort of reason for not being able to provide whatever desired dish he’d asked for. The truth was she could barely manage to survive menial tasks. Getting through the day was hard enough. She was thankful that she was able to work from home; she had been a blogger and did freelance writing. Amber was able to crawl out of her grief and work through her muddy mixture of emotions through journaling. Writing was what had saved her.
But now there she stood, in front of a grill, its stainless steel exterior shiny and hot. She almost didn’t know where to begin.
“Looks like an order for breakfast, hon,” her mother called out as she pasted a bright yellow paper ticket on the spinning, metal carousel that held orders. Amber snatched a glance at the order: pancakes and scrambled eggs. Simple enough. It was now or never. Her body went into auto-pilot as she poured the batter onto the griddle. The bubbling mixture let out a sweet fragrance. The yellow, gooey blend of eggs sizzled as she scraped it on the hot steel. She could do this.
More orders poured in, and her mother gave her encouraging smiles throughout the day. Amber realized how much she had missed cooking, dominating a kitchen, and creating food that people enjoyed. She found herself smiling a couple of times. She would remember all the times she had spent in that very kitchen, in tight corners with her father, where they used to talk about everything under the sun as they worked together to quickly cook up orders. She had a lot of good memories at the diner and now was questioning her reasons for leaving. But if she had stayed, she never would have met Peter Mills, the man she missed every single day for almost two years.
As she scrubbed the steel surface of the grill, using her anger to clean the burnt remnants of food from the day of cooking, she tried to expel the thick feelings of frustration with each motion she made. Her mind lost in thought, she recalled the day she had learned her husband had been killed.
She had been washing dishes, Dylan engrossed in his homework, sitting at the dining room table in
Patrick downed the last of the contents in his bottle, the feelings of relaxation gone. He took this as a sign of punishment for even thinking about Amber. He didn’t even know her. What kind of person was she? He knew nothing about the dark-haired woman, other than she was sexy as hell, and had sprouted feelings of desire and need in him that had long been dormant. He knew the moment she had said she was moving to Birch Valley he was in trouble, big trouble, and he wasn’t sure he minded it all that much. Maybe it was the beer or sheer exhaustion that clouded his reasoning, but he wondered. What would it be like to be with someone else? He hadn’t asked himself that question before.
Chapter Five
Amber
Putting the apron on and standing in front of the grill, Amber was overcome with various emotions. She never thought she would be cooking at Herrick’s diner again, but this was important. After only having arrived a little more than two days ago, she had learned just how needed she really was here. She couldn’t help the stinging tears that threatened to spill as her thoughts traveled back to the first day she arrived. She had been told that her father wasn’t feeling well, but the details had been left out, and now she knew why. Her father had cancer.
Letting out a heavy sigh, Amber was thankful for the distraction of cooking, even if her heart wasn’t in it. She had always loved cooking; food brought so much comfort and joy to people. That’s why, when her husband died and the joy was drained from her, she had no desire to cook anything, at least from scratch. Everything was either take-out, in a cardboard box, or frozen. Dylan had quit asking her to make his favorite dishes, as her answer had always been the same. Amber would make an excuse, find some sort of reason for not being able to provide whatever desired dish he’d asked for. The truth was she could barely manage to survive menial tasks. Getting through the day was hard enough. She was thankful that she was able to work from home; she had been a blogger and did freelance writing. Amber was able to crawl out of her grief and work through her muddy mixture of emotions through journaling. Writing was what had saved her.
But now there she stood, in front of a grill, its stainless steel exterior shiny and hot. She almost didn’t know where to begin.
“Looks like an order for breakfast, hon,” her mother called out as she pasted a bright yellow paper ticket on the spinning, metal carousel that held orders. Amber snatched a glance at the order: pancakes and scrambled eggs. Simple enough. It was now or never. Her body went into auto-pilot as she poured the batter onto the griddle. The bubbling mixture let out a sweet fragrance. The yellow, gooey blend of eggs sizzled as she scraped it on the hot steel. She could do this.
More orders poured in, and her mother gave her encouraging smiles throughout the day. Amber realized how much she had missed cooking, dominating a kitchen, and creating food that people enjoyed. She found herself smiling a couple of times. She would remember all the times she had spent in that very kitchen, in tight corners with her father, where they used to talk about everything under the sun as they worked together to quickly cook up orders. She had a lot of good memories at the diner and now was questioning her reasons for leaving. But if she had stayed, she never would have met Peter Mills, the man she missed every single day for almost two years.
As she scrubbed the steel surface of the grill, using her anger to clean the burnt remnants of food from the day of cooking, she tried to expel the thick feelings of frustration with each motion she made. Her mind lost in thought, she recalled the day she had learned her husband had been killed.
She had been washing dishes, Dylan engrossed in his homework, sitting at the dining room table in
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