On Tuesday, just before I head out to the diner to prep for lunch, I close the door to the old ranch house Grace and I call home, then look up at the little apartment above the garage where my mom lives. She insisted on living alone there, telling us that we should have our own place without “Mama hanging around.”

There’s more to it than that, though. After my father died when Grace and I were ten, Mom would lease out the apartment just to keep the rent paid. Then, several years ago, we all pooled our money and bought the property, and she moved into her own little space. I think she’d been looking for one ever since my damned alcoholic father smashed into another car on that night twenty years ago, killing himself as well as a good man who had his own family. Believe it or not, this was only among the top five awful things my father did in life, but the accident was his fucking swan song, and after that, Mom retreated into the diner’s kitchen as well as this little home of hers, and she hasn’t really emerged from either one since.

If there’s something good that’s come out of this, though, it’s that the value of our property has skyrocketed recently, thanks to all the new businesses moving to Cherry Valley. Buying the house is probably the best financial decision we’ve ever made because it’ll hopefully get Mom through her old age and Grace and me through retirement.

That is, if we can keep the diner running in the black.

As I stand outside Mom’s apartment, I see that her curtains are drawn, so I know she’s finally getting some much-needed shuteye. Grace and I insisted she take the day off, and since Tuesday afternoons are usually slow anyway, I told Grace she could come in for the dinner shift. She wanted to hang out with Penny Burnett, who’s busy helping her sister Mandy with wedding preparations. Cool with me, because slow business means I can get some reading done behind the counter.

Once I get to the diner, I have enough time to take inventory before Irina and Seamus show up. Irina’s our second cook, just out of high school, her speech still thick with a Russian accent since she and her family moved here just over two years ago. Seamus, who’s back from being sick, was her classmate and is presently our do-it-all guy; he’ll be running the counter and register while I wait tables for a change of pace.

As soon as they both say hi to me, they go their separate ways — him with his knit cap drawn down low as he fills napkin holders, she with her apron covering her ample curves as she preps ingredients in the kitchen. I’m not sure the two of them ever communicate outside of the food orders. Mainly, they coexist while I turn on the jukebox to some vintage Eddie Rabbitt and let him do the talking for us.

When customers start coming in, it’s with an easy flow, almost like the spring wind outside. I wish I could feel just as calm, but the old stress is nipping at me as I worry about bills to be paid and how many lunch covers we’ll have to do today in order to keep the diner afloat. Hell, it just never ends. Even so, time moves quickly as we turn over the tables. I only hit a snag when I hear the door open and look over to see Hottie McMuscles and his sidekick coming in.

Oh, boy. I already know how this will play out: they’ll probably think I’m Happy-Go-Lucky Grace and expect me to flit by the table to chat them up, as usual. Then, when I give them that “look” that I’m apparently famous for — I’ve heard it’s the kind of look Medusa might’ve adopted during moments of intense boredom — they’ll get offended. It’s happened to me a hundred times. Yay for being the boring twin.

I glance away from the tatted-up bad boy and his main man before they can see that I saw them, then I make a dash to the kitchen window where Irina has put up an order. I don’t normally get flustered with my heart kicking and my breath getting hung up in my lungs like this. I must be coming down with whatever crud is going around right now. That’s it — Seamus probably didn’t recover from his sickness and he brought it here, and that’s why I’m feeling loopy. After all, McMuscles and Company have been in here every day, and I didn’t lose my cool like this before now.

Am I freaking because I’m the one who has to wait on their damned table this afternoon? What the everlovin’ crap is that about?

Seamus is too busy taking care of the line at the register to cover for me, and when I see that the guys seem ready to order, I sigh.

I calm myself by repeating this slowly: I have no time for men. I am all business. I will take their orders and move on, no matter how many muscles there are at that table.

So I keep my gaze averted from anything that has to do with thick dark hair, wide shoulders, buff arms, or badass tattoos and go to their table, making eye contact only with the shorter guy with the spiked hair.

“Afternoon,” I say levelly. “What can I get you boys?”

“Something fast,” says the sidekick. “We’re on our lunch break from the Climax Vineyards site.”

Before I can tell them I know this because Grace had already informed me about who they are and I can assume what their schedule is, I pause. They wouldn’t have told me this if they thought I was Grace, right? They know I’m the less friendly twin, and that means I won’t have to lollygag here as they try to engage me in conversation. And, indeed, after they order some super fast hamburger specials, that’s that. No talk. No flirt.

No sweat.

The sidekick smiles politely at me, then surfs his phone. It’d be rude for me not to acknowledge McMuscles before I take off to put in their order to the kitchen, so I glance at him and …

I hold my breath as my heart bangs in my chest, leaving a splash of heat behind. My adrenaline races through me as I realize that he’s even more devastatingly yow up close. It doesn’t help that his dark eyes — are they gray? — are fixed on me as a grin plays around his mouth.

I feel the blood rushing to my face, so I turn around and get the hell out. Could it be I was wrong and he did think I was Grace? Guys don’t look at me with sexy grins and long stares. No guy is brave enough to dare, even on the few occasions when Grace drags me out on a date with her.

I stay away from that purgatorial table as long as I can, but I have to serve them drinks and bring them their orders when they’re up. Other than that, I keep my distance, and since all my other customers have already eaten and ran, I actually have time to get out my phone from my apron pocket and open a book in my reading app while keeping one eye on the guys.

Meanwhile, the Mavericks sing a heartfelt tune from the jukebox. God, what I’d give for even one full day to just do nothing but listen to good music and read without anyone or anything to bug me. But, of course, my paradise doesn’t last forever. The time comes when the boys finish their food, so I sigh and tuck my phone away, going over to their table to drop off the check and clear their plates.

The sidekick is toying with his phone again, but McMuscles has his arms propped on the top of the seat, and all I see are cut triceps and biceps and then some.

Stop looking.

“What were you reading so intently?” he asks.

I’m tempted to let him know for sure that I’m not Grace, but with the slightly amused way he’s watching me, I think he already knows.

I’ll get this over with. “It’s a biography about Willie Nelson.”

When his smile goes full force, it gives me a shock, and I’m not just talking about a mild one. His smile brings out sexy crinkles around his eyes, and I can tell that he’s used to easily bringing a girl down in this very way.

I am not going down.

“I love Willie Nelson,” he says.

“Yeah, he’s one of my favorites.” I say it very matter-of-factly, like this requires no further discussion. Then I tear the check off the pad and put it on the table. I’m about to turn away and get on with life when he stops me.

“So you own and run Milton’s with your sister.”

Close enough. “That’s right.”

“Great. I really like this place.”

The sidekick nods his head and grins at me, then goes back to his phone.

“Thanks,” I say, wondering if I can take off now.

But McMuscles is gazing around at all the antlers and animal horns and faded planking on the walls. “Have you ever thought of updating a little?”

I furrow my brow. “Update Milton’s?”

“Yeah. Now, I’m not trying to overstep here. It’s great as it is. But all great businesses need a facelift every once in a while.”

Stress starts to pick at me, because I start thinking about how much facelifts cost and how businesses need to shut down for updating. But before all my worries can reach my face, my pride takes over, and I cross my arms in front of my chest. “As it happens, people like Milton’s because it doesn’t change. And there are a lot of folks who think that some things in Cherry Valley should stay the same instead of rolling along with all the changes that’ve been sweeping over us.”

He holds up his big, rough hands, and I tighten my crossed arms.

“Maybe I should explain myself.” He wields that lethal smile again. “I’m Quinn Maxwell, and this,” he gestures toward the sidekick, who gives me a little wave, “is Miguel Duarte, the best electrician around these parts. We’re contracted to work on—”

“You already told me that you’re working on the Climax Vineyards site. Also, Grace mentioned to me that you’re contractors.”

“Your sister mentioned it to you, huh? Does that mean you were asking?” He directs another killer smile at me.

I evade it with a practiced sigh. Color me unimpressed with his charm.

His smile fades slightly, almost like his most reliable weapon has jammed on him. Miguel hurriedly gets out his phone again and starts goofing around on it.

But if there’s one thing I’ve learned about men — especially ones who are too hot for their own good — it’s that they don’t give up easily. That’s mainly because they find it hard to believe that any woman can resist them.

Maybe Grace will have time for this, but I don’t.

I start to leave, but Quinn’s low voice stops me again. “Gwen … that’s your name, right?”

Like he doesn’t know. I give him the bored Medusa look and … huh. It doesn’t seem to faze him. Maybe it’s my weapon that’s jammed now.

“How do you feel about wine?” he asks.

“I’m more of a light beer kind of girl.” If I drink at all. But I’m not about to mention memories of my fuckwad dad because it’s not this guy’s business.

“Ah, beer,” Quinn says. “I used to be a devoted fan of brew, too, but wine’s a nice change. That is, if you’re open to trying something new.”

I narrow my gaze at him, because it sounds like “trying something new” isn’t so much about wine as my unwillingness to change Milton’s.

He braces his elbows on the table, making his muscles bulge as he gives me a tilted smile. “You should really come out to the site and try some wines before the grand opening.”

Is he … asking me out?

I’m back to thinking that he doesn’t realize that I’m Gwen, the icy twin, not Grace, the hot one who loves men just as much as they love her. I don’t even believe in love, and I never will.

He seems to sense my discomfort, because he adds, “You can even bring your sister Grace if you want.”

Oh. Oh. Now I get it — for some reason, he’s actually using me to get to Grace. I don’t know why he would think that’s necessary, because she isn’t exactly hard to get, but there it is.

I really have no time for this. Willie Nelson is waiting, and so is the rest of my life. “No, thanks. I work at least six days a week, and I’m really not the going-out type.”

Then I scoop up the plates and efficiently leave the table, going into the kitchen so Seamus can ring up Quinn and Miguel at the register. Hell, Bad Boy will probably lob the same offer to Grace the next time he sees her, anyway, and she’ll snatch him right up on the deal. Thank God for that, because the last thing I need is some cocksure guy hanging around bugging me all the time.

Yup, I don’t care at all. But that doesn’t explain the sinking feeling I have while I wash those dishes, scrubbing away the thought that, maybe just once, I could have as much fun out in the world as Grace does.