Outside, the rain softened. The diner’s hum became a quiet song.
“About the warmth?” He smiled. “Or the coffee?”
“Looks that way.”
“You’re lying.”
Mira leaned against the booth, arms crossed. A strand of dark hair escaped her bun. “You’re not a night person, either. You have daylight in your eyes. You’re a 9-to-5 guy faking a sleep disorder.”
Tonight, she set down the coffee pot and didn’t leave.
“You don’t drink it,” she said, nodding at the full cup.
He pushed the cherry pie toward her. “You ever eat this stuff?”
Leo had been coming here for three weeks. Not for the coffee—which was bad—but for her.
Leo froze. “I like the warmth.”
Leo felt the world tilt. The rain, the bad coffee, the pink neon—all of it suddenly mattered.
Mira was quiet for a long moment. Then she slid into the seat across from him.
She met his eyes. “Because the first night you came in, you looked like someone had died. And cherry pie was the only thing on the menu that wasn’t gray.”
“Then why do you keep serving it to me?”