The handsome, muscular, dirty-blond guy who entered the diner that night had a far different air about him than most of our other diners. As he stood at the counter speaking with Marcia, he pressed that strange, vintage-looking suitcase against his chest like it was his lifeblood.

His eyes were focused, blue, and bright, with some kind of secret as he ordered a black coffee from Marcia. His chiseled face and gruff stubble told a story of hunger, of probably not having had a proper meal in weeks. I felt a surge of desire to care for him, to take his coat and feed him. But I forced myself to remain plastered to the broken cushion, reminding myself the truth: he was nothing but a stranger.

“I’ll have that to you real quick,” Marcia said. “And holler at me if you decide you really do want that burger.”

The man didn’t respond. He turned toward my side of the diner, making my heart grow frantic, and chose the booth across from me, sliding the suitcase across his cushion and sitting beside it. He crossed his hands and pressed his chin heavily into them, blinking at me.

He couldn’t keep his eyes off me.

My green eyes, his blue, met across the linoleum floor of the gritty diner, holding onto each other. The electricity between us was intense, making me wonder if time had stopped, if the world had paused on its axis. I could see the depths of his soul, that he’d loved and he’d lost, that he was afraid, that he was running.

What was he running from?

In a sense, both of us were taking refuge at the diner. Perhaps that’s why our eyes met with such penetrating power. Perhaps that was why we couldn’t let go.

Marcia bustled between us, dropping a coffee mug in front of the stranger and then turning toward me and refilling my mug. She stabbed a hand on her waist and gave me a brown-toothed grin, her eyes filled with light. In a way, I was relieved that she’d interrupted the intense moment. It was better this way.

“You know, I was speaking with that guy I was thinking of hooking you up with. That truck driver who comes in here on his way to Nashville about once or twice a month. That Harry character?”

“Oh—” I stuttered. “Harry. Right.”

Could the handsome stranger hear Marcia? Of course he could. Did he think anything of it? Did he care that another man wanted to be with me, to know me?

Jesus, of course he didn’t. Calm down, Luna.

“He says he’d love to meet you next time. Says he’ll text me when he’s on his way through the city. I really think you’d be into this guy, Luna. I know you’re picky and all, but I’m telling you, you’re 25 years old; you have to make time to settle down, to find someone to love and make a life with. If my Hank hadn’t passed away a few years ago…” She trailed off, glancing up as an elderly couple entered the diner.

When Marcia spoke about Hank, she didn’t do it with a sparkle in her eye, or with any kind of regret. I supposed I understood why. I’d met Hank just about a year before he’d died in a car accident south of town, when he’d been speeding back from a lover’s house, returning to pick Marcia up at the diner. If he had been the only love of Marcia’s life, the one she’d decided to build her world around, then my heart ached for her.

She deserved so much more.

“Anyway, just think about it,” Marcia said, giving me a quick wink. “I care about you is all, sweetie. You should be with someone—you’re too lovely of a little thing to be alone.”

Marcia left to greet the couple, leaving me with full view of the newcomer. The man tried to pretend he hadn’t been listening, reaching toward the side of the booth where the sugars were stashed. He fumbled through them, choosing the pure stuff and stacking them on the tabletop—white wrappers stocked with white powder.

As he began to tear into them, his elbow jerked back and pushed into the suitcase beside him, catching the latch and causing it to spring open.

“Shit!” he mumbled.

Immediately, I felt my eyes grow into saucers. Inside the suitcase were bundles and bundles of dark green cash, tied up with rubber bands and piled on top of one another. With a quick surge of my heart, I realized that that amount of cash was probably thousands and thousands of dollars—perhaps even more.

What on earth was he doing with that much cash at a little penny diner like this?

Sipping the remainder of my coffee, I watched as the stranger pushed the suitcase closed again, shoving it tight against the side of the booth and exhaling, looking rattled.

I couldn’t look away. Not now. I felt I had him imprisoned in my gaze.

Slowly, the man’s eyes turned toward me, catching my eyes once more. He had to fess up somehow, like we had a pact. Just by staring into one another’s eyes, we were indebted to each other, locked into an agreement. He looked oddly embarrassed, as if I’d just walked in on him naked. Shrugging evenly, he tried to play it cool, taking a sip of coffee and giving me a small, calculated smile.

He was so handsome when he smiled, it nearly tore me in two.

“Sorry about that,” he said. His voice was deep, gravelly, attractive. It made my stomach stir.

“It’s quite all right,” I whispered back. Eyeing Marcia, I made sure that nobody else in the diner had seen the commotion. It was time for me to make my first stab in the dark. “What was all that about, anyway?”

The buckets and buckets of cash in your suitcase, I wanted to say. What the hell was he doing with all of that here, in the middle of nowhere? Nobody in this part of Iowa City had ever seen that much money in one place. I certainly hadn’t.

“Oh—” The man gestured towards the suitcase. “It’s really nothing. I, um…work for a rich, famous asshole. I’m his bodyguard. You know.”

He made a lashing motion with his hand, as if he were punching someone. The biceps were very much in line with that line of work, but I still wasn’t sure I believed him. It seemed too perfect somehow. And why would a bodyguard be eating at a diner?

“Anyone I might have heard of?” I asked. I blinked slowly, like a cartoon character.

“Probably not,” the man said, his nostrils flaring in panic. He hadn’t expected follow-up questions. “He’s mostly famous around Detroit, where I’m from. I wouldn’t guess you Iowans have caught wind of him quite yet.”

“Try me,” I replied. I flashed my white teeth in a smile, loving watching him squirm.

“Ah, naw. I can’t now,” the man said. He was gaining traction. His brain was quick. “The guy pays me in cash so he can avoid taxes. Now that you have this secret, I can’t divulge his name. You already know too much.”

“He’d have me taken care of, would he?” I asked, snickering slightly.

A small bead of sweat dropped down the man’s forehead. I’d never made someone so nervous in my life.

I decided, in that moment, to continue toying with him—to measure my success by the beads on his forehead. As I did, a dangerous idea formed in my head, one built from the desperation and sadness I felt regarding my and my father’s misfortune.

Desperate times called for desperate measures.

And I wasn’t going to go down without a fight.