The guy sitting at the front table—my favorite table in the house—isn’t one of a crowd of old men who will require constant tending and refill after refill of coffee while I dodge hands that “accidentally” reach towards my ass. He’s not an old man at all.

He’s the sexiest man I’ve ever seen. Sexiest person, if I’m being honest, and one look into his blue eyes has heat rushing down my spine and up into my cheeks.

I was saying something. What was I saying? I have to keep saying it—that’s what I’m here to do—but he’s scowling at me, looking at me with a certain darkness in his blue eyes, and it’s utterly captivating and terrifying all at once.

He’s not alone.

That fact hits me a few long heartbeats later, when the tiny figure in the high chair facing the window spins around, a big grin on her face. “Heyo,” she says, waving a chubby hand in the air at me. “Pancakes. Pancakes, pease.”

Snap out of it, Valentine. A toddler I can handle, and at least she’s forced my gaze to her so I can suck in a deep breath.

“Wow,” I say, my voice way too high. I sound like an idiot. I clear my throat, but my entire body is pulsing with the sight of this man, the energy radiating off of him and filling the entire front room of the Short Stack. I have to get it together. “Pancakes coming right up.” Oh, shit. Should I be taking an order from a toddler without even getting permission from—well, he must be her dad, if he’s here with her, especially this early. He looks young to be a dad, but then again—

It takes everything I have to look back into his smoldering eyes. “Let me start over.” I’m practically choking on every single word out of my mouth, and I have no idea why. “I’m Valentine, and I’ll be taking care of you this morning.”

“Great.” His voice is low and gruff, a little gravelly, like he’s short on sleep. If he has a toddler, he’s probably always short on sleep. My mind spins into overdrive. I have no idea who this man is, and I’ve never heard of him before. He must be new in town, because I can’t imagine that the old biddies who come in around ten on the weekdays would keep him a secret if he were one of their grandsons. He reaches for a menu, his muscles flexing beneath the fabric of his gray t-shirt, and suddenly I can’t breathe again.

“Pancakes?” His daughter is looking at me with the most charming grin I’ve ever seen on a child. I have to resist the urge to sit down next to her and strike up a conversation because I’m pretty certain it would be the cutest damn thing ever to grace the face of the earth.

“You did a good job ordering pancakes, Minnie,” he says to her, eyes moving over the print on the menu. “I’ll have the All-American breakfast.” He gathers up the other menu, and that’s when I realize I’m still standing in the middle of the room like an idiot.

I move closer to the table, which is like throwing myself into the surface of the sun. I take the menus, and one falls out of my hands and back onto the table. The little girl bursts out laughing, the sound pure delight. “You drop it.” She points at the menu and I grin down at her while I pick it up.

“I did drop it, yes.” God, my voice sounds so weird and strange that I can hardly believe it’s mine. I turn my attention back to this man—this unbelievably hot man—and try again. “You said the All-American, right? White, wheat, or rye for the toast?”

“Rye.” He doesn’t return my smile, though the corner of his lip quirks upward a little.

“And did you want hash browns or American potatoes?”

“I thought it was the All-American breakfast.”

My face can’t get any hotter, but then it does. “Well, it is, but we offer two kinds of—”

“I know. I was joking.”

“Oh.” I laugh, but it sounds nervous. I wanted it to sound confident. “I couldn’t tell there for a minute.” And now I just sound hokey and small town and like everything I don’t want to be in this moment. In this moment I want to be so irresistible that he can’t help but get up from the table, take me by the hand, and...

...and what? Abandon his ridiculously cute daughter in the middle of the restaurant, not to mention any other customers that might come in and need my waitressing skills? 

Not going to happen. Not now, not ever. 

“Hash browns.”

“Great choice!” 

His eyes are so blue. They’re like the ocean. They’re like the lake on a calm day. They’re like a million clichés, only they’re alive in a way that I’ve never seen before. Alive and unhappy. Alive and almost tortured, his expression is so intense. I could just fall into those eyes.

Which is exactly what happens.

I’m in the middle of trying to decide whether his eyes are more sky-like or ocean-like when his daughter leans forward and sticks her head into my field of vision, her head almost parallel with the table. “Thank you!” She chirps the words, waving her hand, and I realize I’ve been standing here, silent, staring at this man for so long that I’m surprised he didn’t say a thing. 

And now I’ve been dismissed by a toddler.

“You’re so welcome!” I tell her, wishing desperately that the blush would disappear from my cheeks, and turn on my heel. 

I’m three steps toward the door when it hits me—I didn’t ask him about his eggs, and Jesus, it’s painful, having to stop and turn around with his eyes still burning into my back.

He’s still not smiling, but he is looking at me, his arms crossed over his chest, something close to a smirk on his face. 

I clear my throat. “Oh, and there was one more thing.”

He raises his eyebrows. “I’m not giving you my number.” His tone is so flat that I know it’s not a joke. Not this time.

“I wasn’t going to—” I swallow my pride and the sudden wound rising in my chest, because damn, was that an asshole thing to say. Only every nerve is so alive with him that I can’t think of anything to say back. I’m lost for a witty retort. “How do you like your eggs?”

Something flashes through his expression—guilt?—but he doesn’t apologize. He’s going to say that he likes them fertilized, isn’t he? I almost laugh out loud at the joke he hasn’t made, that he wouldn’t make, not with that brooding attitude. Eggs. Focus on the eggs. “Over easy.”

“Great.” It’s a real effort to get the words out now. “I’ll be right back with that pancake.”

I’m in the kitchen before it comes to me. I wouldn’t take your number even if you gave it.

Damn it.