Dining for Love (Lucky in Love, Book 1)

She’s not expecting love. He’s not planning to stay.

Willa Dash’s sheltered life is perfectly wonderful, thank you very much. She loves cooking at her family’s diner and enjoying everything her tiny beach side town has to offer—despite her mother insisting her talents would be better showcased at a Michelin-starred restaurant far away from home.

Big city cop Reid MacKinnon decamps to Lucky after his undercover sting goes bust. His plan is simple: help his police chief uncle by patrolling the town, and lay low while the D.A. builds a case against the bad guys back home.

All his plans go up in flames when he comes face to face with adorably klutzy Willa, who stammers and tries to hide from him every time they meet. Considering he’s her new neighbor, that’s…a lot. It’s not long before making her blush is his new favorite pastime, and this small town? It’s beginning to feel a lot like home. Now he needs to convince Willa to give their relationship a real chance—and not be taken out by the hitman sent to finish him.

I will not cry today.

The onions will not beat me.

I. Will. Win.

I do this every shift. I dice twenty onions, and somewhere around the ten-onion mark, things start to go sideways. Because that’s when my nose starts itching, and instead of wiping it on my shoulder, I sniff to make it stop, and ka-blam, it’s all she wrote.

Today is no different. Blinking rapidly, I fight the sting of impending tears from the mound of white onions piled to the right of the peppers. My eyes start to water—because I am not crying—but I persevere because we need more onions.

Lord knows that since it’s Sunday, and summer, the diner will be packed to the rafters. Sundays always mean the rentals are full, but everyone got way too trashed on the first night of their beach vacation to actually cook the food they bought at the Piggly Wiggly yesterday. I can see it now: there will be a lot of headaches, a lot of coffee requested, and a lot of my famous Hangover Omelets ordered.

The secret, if you’re wondering, is the Korean barbecue-flavored beef, plus, of course, a healthy amount of butter in the hash browns.

The bell over the door jingles, and in come my parents, Barbara and Dean Dash, the owners of Dash In Diner. Technically, they’re also my employers, but we never let that get in the way. I’ve been working here in one way or another since I was ten. First, all they let me do was roll silverware at the counter after school, my legs swinging happily as I perched on a bright red stool and chatted with the customers. Then I was a dishwasher and a hostess, and once I turned sixteen, Dad finally allowed me to join him in the kitchen.

The minute I tied the apron around me and stood in front of the grill, that was it. I was a goner. I fell in love with the fast-paced rhythm of being a diner cook, the particular language between cooks and servers, the joy of doing something that makes people happy. Even after twelve years back here, that joy hasn’t left.

“Where’s Goldie?” My sister usually bounces in ahead of them with all the energy of a toddler instead of the twenty-six years she actually is.

“She won’t be here,” Dad answers good-naturedly. “Not feeling well.”

“And the other two servers have called in sick,” my mom adds with a roll of her eyes.

I smirk. “You mean hungover.”

She shrugs and pours herself a cup of coffee, reaching for the sugar on autopilot. “Maybe, but it can’t be helped. We need you out front.”

The knife clatters to the cutting board. “No way.” We all know I’m no good at it. Why would I subject anyone, myself included, to that kind of torture?

Dad chuckles and pats my shoulder, his hand strong and sure. “You’re not that bad.”

I gawk at him. “Dad. The last time I waited tables, I dropped an entire four-top’s order!”

He doesn’t bother with a response. Instead, he steps into his usual spot behind the grill and holds his hand out for my apron.

I sigh and untie it. “Fine. But I can’t be held responsible for what happens.”

“Willa Dean Dash,” Mom chides, her honeyed voice sharpened with irritation, “You’re perfectly skilled with more knives than I have names for, and you are a wizard in that kitchen. You could wait tables with one hand if you put your mind to it.”

Yeah, that’s…not true. But bless her for thinking it. The only place I’m steady is in the kitchen. Put me out front, and all bets are off.

Mom winks at me to soften the blow and begins the early morning routine: brewing more coffee, wiping down sticky menus, marrying the ketchup, and rolling the last bit of silverware. There’s another ten minutes before opening at seven, and then we close at three.

I look at dearly departed Granny’s iron skillet, hanging on the wall over the coffee pot, and send it a prayer. I’m gonna need all the help today I can get. At seven o’clock on the dot, Mom turns the sign to Open and the day gets going. She’ll handle all the customers behind the counter and take everyone’s payments, plus play hostess to the rest of the small diner. Together, we’ll take care of everyone as best as we can and issue the requisite apologies for any slowness and thanks for patience.

I’m doing pretty good and not messing things up too badly until late morning. Mom seats Chief Mac, Lucky’s police chief, at a booth instead of his usual spot at the counter. He’s got someone with him, and when I finally get a chance to turn around and say hello, I screech to a halt.

Because the man with Chief Mac might be the most gorgeous human I have ever laid my eyes on. Thick, wavy dark hair and tan skin that looks way too good beneath the white T-shirt he wears. A T-shirt that seems to be clinging onto the man’s biceps for dear life, and honestly? I might be jealous of that shirt.

“Um. H-hi.”

“Hi.” He smiles, and I blink rapidly, trying furiously not to pass out. Because holy bright smile and dimples, Batman. Is this legal?