From Bully To Beloved

SERA

NINETEEN DAYS LEFT

“Sera?”RêAd lat𝙚St chapters at Novel(D)ra/ma.Org Only

I’m in the middle of wiping down the shelves where we store the coffee mugs and cups when Marie comes through the door.

“Why are you here so early?” she asks.

“No reason,” I say breezily.

Marie raises her eyebrows, looking at all the cups on the counter, and me, attacking the shelf like it offended my ancestors. “Anything you want to talk about, sweetie?”

I sigh heavily and let the rag fall onto the shelf in front of me. “I’m sorry I’ve been out of sorts lately. It’s…things are such a mess right now.”

Marie comes around the counter and pulls me into a hug. “Aww, sweetie, it’s all right. As much as I appreciate your sudden interest in extreme cleanliness, maybe you should take a seat. Come on, put the glasses back, and I’ll make us some coffee.”

I return the hug, instantly at ease.

Marie always has that effect on me. I do as she says, putting the mugs and cups back onto the shelf and throwing the dirty rag into the back. Meanwhile, Marie pulls out the specialty coffee, which is usually only used on Sunday. But she knows how much I love French Vanilla and brews a fresh pot for us to share.

Once it’s ready, she pours a cup for each of us and takes a seat next to me. “All right, Sera, lay it on me. I know we haven’t talked about it, but you’ve been going through a tough time lately. I can tell. You know you can talk to me about anything.”

I pour a hearty amount of sugar into my cup. “I know I can. It’s something personal that I’ve been trying to keep to myself for a few reasons. It’s not because I don’t trust you, it’s just because it’s so ridiculous.”

She chuckles. “Well, now youhaveto tell me.”

“You ready for a good laugh?”

“Always.”

I already told Kelly, might as well tell Marie. She won’t tell a soul. I spend the next five minutes giving her the briefest of rundowns about what’s been going on. Unlike Kelly, she doesn’t react when I tell her I got married. When all is said and done, she stares at me for a moment before bursting into laughter.

“Great, thank you, thanks for that,” I say.

Marie lays her hand on my arm. “I’m sorry, sweetie,” she says between giggles. “I don’t mean to laugh at your expense, but you’re right, thisdidmake for a good laugh. Being forced to marry your childhood bully for a major inheritance and then seeing his impressive willy would do that to you. Honestly, I’d be more concerned if you didn’t find the humor in all of this.”

Now we’re both laughing. I love Marie, bless her heart, and it’s just so her to say willy instead of dick. It’s the whole situation, really, that makes me crack up: me here, talking to my 68-year-old boss about the memorable reproductive organ of my one-month-husband. She’s right: the whole situation is too funny, if you think about it. My sides start to hurt, and I have to take a few deep breaths to calm myself. “If you had told me last month that I’d be sitting here complaining about being married and attracted to Colton Ashton, I would’ve told you to stop pulling my leg.” I pick up my coffee and take a big sip. The warmth spreads down my throat and into my stomach, instantly putting me at ease.

“Hey, I’m not here to judge,” Marie says, her eyes all wrinkled up in amusement. She lifts her hands in surrender. “I’ve been married three times, and none of them came with hundreds of thousands of dollars. It would’ve been worth it if they had.”

I snort, well aware of Marie’s relationships with men.

Marie laughs, this time softer as she puts her arm around me. “All joking aside, good for you. If someone irritated me that much, I’d have gone crazy already. Is he that gorgeous?”

I think about last night and my cheeks grow warm. “Drop dead gorgeous.” I take another big sip of coffee. “There’sno wayI can let him win this bet.”

“You’ve got this, Sera,” Marie says, rubbing my back. “Show him who’s boss! Just because he’s a pretty face doesn’t mean you should go easy on him.”

I lift my mug in a mock toast. “Hell no.”

She clinks her mug against mine.

I miss mornings like this with Marie. It reminds me of the old days when I first started.

As glad as I am that she’s been taking time for herself and considering retiring-she deserves it-I’m going to miss seeing her every day. We take time to finish our coffees, and I’m feeling much better after.

Marie heads into the office to get some things done, and I get ready to start my actual shift.

Despite how busy the day turns out to be, Cal’s naked body keeps randomly popping into my head. I don’t remember ever drawing that fast in my life. It’s not only the subject that was good. The drawing itself came out great. I’m my worst critic, and even though it was a quick spur-of-the-moment sketch, I couldn’t find fault with it when I was done.

I hear the ding of the bell in the kitchen and Deacon calls, “Order up!” dragging me out of my musings.

Focus on the bet. That’s the most important thing right now. You have to make sure he doesn’t win.

The Diner is packed with its usual breakfast crew, and the kitchen is alive with activity. It’s the perfect day for training, which was why I scheduled the newbies for their first day. Marie has left the whole process up to me, and I’ve run with it. It’s making our service a little slower, but I’m able to pick up the slack.

That’s until a customer complains for the third time in a row about our hollandaise (which Deacon makes fresh every morning). When I ask why she’s ordered a dish she doesn’t like for the third time in a row, she doesn’t answer me. Alfred, one of our regulars, is having a bad day and doesn’t find our service fast enough, even though Daphne took his breakfast to his table within eight minutes-freshly made, mind you.

I feel punchy.

I love our regulars. They are some of the nicest people I’ve had the fortune of getting to know. Lately, though, it’s somewhat harder to handle the mean ones. I used to let it slide off my back. Now, I dwell, and it takes longer to get back into happy-mode.

I’m thankful that Kelly senses my inner turmoil and manages to calm down the difficult customers.