was no point in going to bed when she needed to be at the diner soon, anyway.
Rubbing the sleep from her face, she went to shower and got dressed for the day.
Thirty minutes later, with her damp hair hidden beneath a bright blue knit cap and her gloved hands shoved deep in the pockets of her wool coat, she walked the three blocks from her triplex to the restaurant and let herself in the rear door. She didn’t need to turn on any lights to make her way through the back of the diner, because aside from updating an appliance here and there over the years, nothing significant had changed since she’d started working there as a teenager.
She went out to the front of the restaurant, where the glass windows overlooked Main Street, and started fresh coffee brewing. With that delicious aroma following her, she went back into the kitchen, turned on the lights and got down to work.
By the time she heard the back door open again, she had three baking sheets of cinnamon rolls cooling on the racks and was sliding two more into the oven. “Grab that third sheet from the counter, would you?”
She looked over her shoulder, expecting Bubba.
But it was Justin who picked up the large metal pan. “This one?”
Her lips tightened, and she took the sheet pan from him, sliding it into the oven along with the others and closing the door. “Come to check on your investment?”
She didn’t wait for an answer and went back out through the swinging door to the front, where she poured herself a cup of coffee. It wasn’t quite 6:00 a.m. yet, but she unlocked the door and flipped the Closed sign to Open, anyway.
When she turned back, Justin was sitting on one of the red vinyl–upholstered stools at the counter. He was wearing dark gray running pants and a zippered jacket with CNJ printed on the stand-up collar.
His clothes looked expensive. And darn it all, they fit his tall, exceptional physique as if they’d been tailored for him. Which, for all she knew, they had been. He’d admitted quite a few years ago that he not only had his suits tailored, but his shirts, as well. His precious Gillian had seen to that.
Since Tabby didn’t want to think about that, she focused on everything above his neck. His thick, short hair was damp, making the blond strands look brown. He’d obviously showered. Her nose was even prickling from the vaguely spicy scent of his soap. Or...whatever.
“You need a shave.” She flipped over a thick white mug, filled it with coffee and pushed it in front of him.
His long fingers circled the mug. “You should keep the door locked when you’re here by yourself.”
“Please. Be mighty hard for customers to come in to Ruby’s if I kept the doors locked whenever I happen to be alone.” Hard for customers. Hard for intruders.
She pushed aside the thought and went back through the swinging door, pulled on clean plastic gloves and turned out the first batch of rolls, deftly packing several up individually, then punched down the dough that was rising in an enormous steel bowl.
He hadn’t budged when she went back out to the front.
She deposited the pastry boxes next to the register, threw away the gloves, refilled her coffee and leaned back against the rear counter, studying him over the brim of her cup. His eyes were bloodshot. Which, annoyingly, just seemed to make the violet color stand out that much more. “Tie one on last night?”
His jaw canted to one side. He shook his head and squinted as he sipped the steaming-hot coffee. “Should have. Couldn’t sleep, anyway. At least then it would’ve been worthwhile.”
She smiled sweetly. “I slept like a baby.” On the couch. Plagued by dreams about him, only to wake with a crick in her neck that still made it hurt to turn her head too far to the left.
“Were you always this much of a witch, Tab?”
Despite everything, she felt a stab of some unidentified emotion. “Isn’t that how spinsters are supposed to act?”
He leaned on his elbows and looked at her through his lashes. “Twenty-eight is spinsterhood now?”
She sipped her coffee. It was to some old-fashioned folks around Weaver. But truthfully?
She felt that stab again. Regret, perhaps. Maybe loss.
It was hard to tell. When it came to Justin, things had started getting complicated long before they’d become adults. “Close enough to be a regular at Dee Crowder’s spinster poker night.”
“‘Spinster’ sounds like you’re seventy-five and still pining for your first kiss.” He gave her that through-the-lashes look again. “And I know you don’t qualify there. Hell.” His lips twitched suddenly. “I remember when Caleb kissed you when we were freshmen in high school.”
About the time when she’d wished Justin would have been interested in kissing her. But he’d never been interesting in kissing her for her. She’d always been a substitute on that score. A substitute he’d left behind the same way he’d left behind Weaver.
“Doesn’t count,” she said promptly. “It was a practice kiss. He was afraid he’d mess up when he planted his first one on Kelly Rasmussen.”
Justin’s head came up, his expression genuinely surprised. “I always figured you gave him the same response you gave me when we were nine. Without the broken nose.”
It was nearly six. She figured Sloan McCray, one of the deputy sheriffs, would be showing his face soon before he went on duty. And frankly, she would be grateful for the interruption.
She flipped on the radio and glanced over the stack of to-go cups she kept near the big brewer. “If he’d done it without permission in order to make Kelly jealous, I probably would have given him the same response.” She lifted her shoulder. “Apples and oranges, though.”
“I didn’t kiss you to make Sierra jealous.”
“And you didn’t sleep with me four years ago to make—what’s her name? Oh, right. Gillian.” The name was seared on her brain. “That wasn’t an attempt to get her to sit up and take notice of you?”
“How many times do you want me to apologize for that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a few million.” She looked past him when the front door opened, making the little bell on top jingle softly. “Good morning, Deputy. Get you the usual?”
“Yeah. Thanks, Tabby.” Sloan stepped up to the counter and handed her his insulated travel mug for the coffee. She turned and filled it while he greeted Justin. “How’s life in Boston?”
“Cold,” Justin admitted. “Not as cold as here—” he glanced at Tabby “—but still cold. How’s your wife?”
“Keeping me warm,” Sloan drawled. “Very warm.”
“And the boy—Dillon, right?”
“Growing like a weed,” Tabby said, turning to hand the deputy his coffee mug, along with one of the pastry boxes. “He and Abby came by last week. Dillon’s going to be a heartbreaker one of these days.”
“Fortunately, I think we’ve got a few years yet before we have to worry about that.” He pulled out his wallet.
She waggled her finger at him. “You know your money is no good here, Deputy.”
“And you know I’m gonna argue.”
“Justin’s half owner of this place. Tell him, Justin.”
“What Tabby said,” Justin said obediently, without moving a muscle. “Easier to go along with her than argue, because you’ll never win. Trust me.”
Sloan stuffed a few dollars in the empty tip jar by the register. “You won’t give that back, because I know it gets split among your crew.” He took a sip from his mug, turning his gaze to Justin again. “You in town for the long weekend?