Truly Madly Deeply: A Grumpy x Sunshine Romance (Forbidden Love Book 1)

“Whatever”—En Vogue

“I can’t do this,” I wailed barely fifteen minutes later, slugging behind Row as we jogged on a tree-lined street. My arms dangled by my side like two strings of overcooked pasta. “I quit.”

“Quitting is for quitters.”

“Quitters are my people.” I pounded my chest with my fist. “I’m so much of a quitter, I didn’t even start. Never recorded that podcast, remember?”

Row slowed to match my pace, and I noticed the bastard didn’t even break a sweat. Rain peppered our faces. It was a drizzle, the kind you barely noticed.

“Are you tired or triggered?” The rain accented his delicious scent, and I had to remind myself it was creepy to lean into him. Then again, it wasn’t my fault he was tall, dark, handsome, and so inked he looked like a desk at detention.

“I’m triggered,” I bit out unnecessarily harshly. “Do you really think I’m that out of shape?”

“Tell me why you’re triggered.”

“I keep remembering what made me stop running, having flashbacks of that day.”

The way they fisted dirt from the ground. Dumped it on me, burying me alive.

A tremor rolled down my backbone. I stuck my tongue out to catch some rain, like I used to do when I was a kid. No dice. I normally needed my coffee to kick in before reality did. But this morning, I’d had none. Row knew better than to dig into whatever had triggered me.

“You need to focus on the now,” he said decisively. “Look around you. Tell me what you see.”

“I see it’s raining. Let’s head back.”

“Nice try. I want you to pay attention to your surroundings.” He grabbed my shoulders, anchoring me in place. “Try it.”

A paperboy leisurely rode his bike hands-free, tossing newspapers at doors. The steep road was decorated with green streetlamps and clouds of orange-leafed sweetgums and maples. The roar of waves crashing against rocks nearby reminded my bladder I hadn’t peed before I left the house.

Noticing Row’s unusual outfit, the paperboy followed us with his gaze, bumping into a trash can with his bike and flying onto a soft pillow of leaves.

I winced. “You okay there, bud?”

“Yup. Great. Never better!” he called out, sticking a hand out of the pile of leaves and waving it at us. “Hi, Mr. Casablancas.”

“Hi, nosy little shit.”

“Name’s Bert.”

“Okay, nosy little shit.”

“Hey, you’re the one who chose to look like a Eurovision participant, so don’t be testy.” I poked an elbow into Row’s ribs, mainly to have an excuse to touch him. We slowly returned to jogging. “Speaking of Eurovision, are we ever going to address the fact that Australia partakes in the competition? I mean, it’s a Commonwealth country, but so are Singapore and Trinidad. Where do we draw the line?”

He listened to me talk about Eurovision for a few minutes—I was a big fan—but didn’t have much to contribute to the conversation. Soon, we fell into silence, still jogging, and my mind drifted back to that moment in the woods, washing away all other thoughts like a current.

Smug faces framing the sky as they peered from above me.

Sneakers digging into my ribs, kicking me.

“I want to stop.” My voice shattered inside my throat like broken glass, and my eyes burned. “I appreciate you trying to help, but—”

“Why green?” he snapped, desperate to keep the conversation going. To keep me moving.

“Huh?” I sniffled, frowning at him as we continued jogging down the road.

“Why did you change your hair tips to green? What does the color represent?”

Jealousy. Because you dated Allison.

“Peace,” I heard myself say. “I want peace, I want tranquility—I really want to get some damn sleep—so I colored it green to manifest that kind of energy in my life. Now tell me why you want me to run.”

We were at the bottom of the road and took a right toward Main Street, which was farther than I’d run last time.

“Dylan,” he said, picking up speed, desperate to keep me jogging.

I pushed myself to keep up. “What about her?”

“You asked why I was helping you. I’m doing it because of Dylan. She missed you. Bed rest has been brutal on her. You know she can’t stay still. Used to pull doubles at Descartes, then go partying into the night in Portland before the pregnancy. Ever since you came back, she’s been smiling more. It’s like a part of her that died has been resurrected.”

“I missed her a lot too.” I pressed my lips together. “Is that the only reason you’re helping me?”

“Isn’t it enough?”

“It is. I’m just wondering if there’s something else.”

“No,” he harrumphed. “Wait, yes. Now I remember—I also want to fuck you again.”

I tripped over my own feet, about to dive into the ground. He caught me by the hem of my shirt, jerking me upright.

I’ll always catch you. When have I ever let you take the hit for something, Dot?

“You did not just say that.” I slapped branches out of my way as I regained my balance.

“Did too. Fair warning—I want much more than fucking this time around. I want dates. I want laughs. I want you to be honest with me. All the stuff that freaks you out for some reason. No strings attached. No commitment. Just fun. A perfect do-over.”

“Why do you need a do-over?”

“So my last memory of us won’t be you almost vomiting because we had sex.”

“I almost vomited because your sister caught us!” I shrieked. “Which is exactly why this won’t happen again. You’re high if you think I’m betraying her trust a second time around.”

“Thought you’d say that. I have great news for you.”

“What?”

“She no longer gives a fuck.”

“That’s not tru—”

“It is. Ask her yourself.”

The confidence with which he’d said that made my heart twist like Play-Doh. What had changed between then and now? Why was she okay with us hooking up all of a sudden?

“Why wouldn’t she care?” I asked in a panic.

“Because it no longer matters.”

“How c—”

“Come on, Bitchy. Put two and two together.”

Bitchy.

He’d called me Bitchy.

The rain intensified, knocking on our faces. I skidded to an abrupt stop. A wave of memories crashed into me all at once, nearly knocking me down on my ass. Everything became crystal clear in one swift moment.

Row defending me when Dylan caught us having sex.

Row teaching me how to slow dance in his room before my very first prom because I knew I would be too terrified to ever dance with anyone else and didn’t want to miss out.

Row and I sitting on the hood of his car, in front of an endless ocean, the moon, and the stars. Me saying, “Isn’t it beautiful?” and him answering, “Yes, you are.”

Row being essentially in love with me.

I couldn’t even touch the other revelation right now. It was too much to process.

Bitchy. Bitchy. Bitchy.

McMonster. Selfless, sweet McMonster. Who seemed to know me inside out. Who could read me like an open book. Could it be?

But it couldn’t be.

No. It couldn’t.

Not him.

Not the shiniest boy in Staindrop.

“No more running.” I planted my feet on the pavement, clutching my knees, panting. Tears prickled the back of my eyeballs. Row looked on high alert. Neither of us seemed ready to acknowledge the fact that he was McMonster and I was Bitchy.

For the first time since I’d known him, he looked like a boy. Not a heartthrob, not a world-famous chef, not a formidable boss—just a boy. My head swam with so many questions. I had to comb through them, to wait before I launched on the elephant in the room.

“I’m going to go back to the Bitchy confession in one moment. I just have to…” I held my head with both hands like it was about to explode, pacing the small corner of the street. “Why doesn’t Dylan care about us anymore?” I straightened. “Give me the truth.”

Raindrops framed his face, his hair clinging in coal strands over his forehead. He stole my breath, and I had a feeling he was about to steal a few other things if I let my guard down.

His chest fell and rose. His lips parted, condensation rolling out of them. “She moved on.”

“You’re lying.” My tears were falling freely now, mixing with the raindrops.

“I am,” he admitted. “She wasn’t the one who moved on. I did. I moved on. That’s why it doesn’t matter anymore.”

“I’m so stupid. So stuck inside my own head I didn’t see the signs. All the little tidbits. The romantic moments. The sweet gestures. The compliments you never seemed to pay anyone else but me. Tell me I’m crazy, that I’m hallucinating, sleep-deprived.” I grabbed the back of my head, folding over and letting out a yelp. “But I think, once upon a time, you wanted me. As a girlfriend. You had feelings for me. You…you…” Say it, don’t be scared. He is safe. You know he’d never hurt you. “You liked me.”

My epiphany was sharp and painful, like a blade twisting into my stomach. There was not enough air in this world to keep my lungs from burning.

“Let’s not get carried away over here.” He walked backward, away from me.

“She was feral when she caught us, Row. And Dylan is normally chill.” I was chasing him now, on the verge of running. I tried to snatch the soaked sleeve of his windbreaker. “She didn’t want us to hook up because she thought I’d hurt you.”

He said nothing, just stared at me, looking slightly alarmed.

“I’m sorry it took me this long to figure it out.” I jogged after him, picking up speed. He kept walking backward, staring at me like I had stripped him of his clothes at gunpoint.

“You had feelings for me.” That whole time I had felt unworthy, the shiniest boy in the world had thought differently. “That was why Dylan was so mad at me when she found us. That was why you stayed that night to give me a ride home, even though I was horrible to you and completely blew it with the way I handled everything.”

“That is enough.” His jaw was so tense, it looked like it was about to snap out of his skin.

“It’s why you taught me how to dance in tenth grade.” I ignored him, stumbling toward him blindly, happily, excitedly. “Why you were never grumpy with me…” I was in a trance, my tongue as loose and unhinged as my thoughts. “…and when we bumped into each other under the mistletoe when I was in eleventh grade, you pressed a Hershey chocolate to my lips and smiled. You said, ‘Same place next year?’”

“Actually, that time I was turning you down politely.” He was swatting me off like I was a fly that had slipped into his shirt.

“You made me a paper ring.” Jesus, how long had he had feelings for me? “You had an Oh Henry! in your drawer for me to steal every time I came over, because I once told you they were my favorite. You always had one ready. Every single time.” I stopped running, wheezing. “They don’t even make them anymore. How the hell did you find them?”

“How did I fin… Does it matter?” He shook his head, raindrops flying from his hair everywhere. “What mattered was that your skinny, anemic ass ate them. You were severely malnourished as a teen. Lived off chicken nuggets and chips.”

I stopped running. He came to a halt too. Everything was drowned out. The world stopped moving.

Row flung his hands in the air, turning to me fully.

“Bitchy,” I said simply. “I’m Bitchy. And you are—”

“Mac.” He completed the sentence, a mocking sneer finding his lips. “Feel cheated?”

I shook my head. No, I didn’t. I couldn’t explain it without sounding deranged, but I had always known, on some level, I was talking to Row all these years. “How did you find me in that forum?”

“I didn’t.” His jaw jumped again. “One night I searched androphobia because I was curious about…something.” He rubbed his cheek with his knuckles. “I was in between shifts working for this asshole chef in Paris. I stumbled upon this forum. You had to sign up to be able to read the threads. You started talking to me.”

I had. I’d liked his name. I’d liked that he’d liked all my comments without ever contributing to the conversation. It had made me feel like there was someone on my side. Row looked everywhere but at me, avoiding eye contact.

“Wait, why did you search androphobia?” I narrowed my eyes. “You’re not afraid of men.”

“I was afraid of a man.” His jawline turned stony. “Everyone is fighting their own demons, Dot.”

“So…we just happen to have the same problem?” I scratched my head, confused. “That seems highly unlikely.”

“Believe it or not, I had no idea that it was you until you came to Staindrop. I mean, I had my suspicions, but I never confirmed it.”

“You lied about your life,” I noted. He’d said he lived in New York and was a measly sous-chef. That he was originally from Philadelphia. That he lived with roommates.

“What was my alternative, telling you that I was a millionaire, a famous chef who made it to People’s ‘Hottest Thirty Under Thirty’?” He arched an eyebrow.

Touché.

“Well, you could’ve told me the second you found out.”

“I tried.” He wrenched a cigarette from his pocket, took one look at my face, and tossed it on the ground, stomping on it in annoyance. “Repeatedly. You kept telling me not to.”

McMonster was Row.

Row was McMonster.

The man I’d thought I might fall in love with was the same man who hated me so much these days he couldn’t even look at me. I didn’t know what to do with this information. I couldn’t even unpack it. Something occurred to me then.

“How did you know I’m, you know, not comfortable with men?”

“How did I…?” He squinted, like I was ant-sized and he had to look carefully to see me. “Maybe because I notice every fucking thing about you?”

I blinked. One, two, five hundred times. He did?

Row tilted his head upward, letting the rain pound on his face, a dark, humorless chuckle escaping him. “Fine. Want the truth? Here’s the truth: No, I didn’t ‘have feelings’ for you.” He air-quoted the words with a sneer. “I was in love with you. Honest to fucking God, full-blown, snatch-my-heart-out-and-let-you-use-it-as-a-stress-ball in love with you.” He looked disgusted with himself for uttering each word. “And you didn’t give half a shit about me.”

That wasn’t true. I had been busy weeding through my adolescent trauma and distracting myself with nineties memorabilia. Reimagining my life without Instagram, and Snapchat, and WhatsApp. I had been drowning while simultaneously pretending everything was going swimmingly. I had felt so broken, so unworthy, the prospect of precious Ambrose Casablancas hadn’t even occurred to me.

Row had seemed as bright and far as a star. Ethereal, out of this world. Wherever galaxy he belonged in, I wasn’t welcome there.

“Y-you fell in love with me?” I stepped forward, my eye tic out of control. I didn’t care. I never cared when Row and Dylan were privy to them.

“I didn’t fall.” He omitted a sharp, irritated huff. “You fucking tripped me.”

“I…I thought you pitied me for being, I don’t know…weird and eccentric and awkward,” I whispered, torn between glee and grief. “That you saw me as your little sister’s annoying best friend.”

“I did.” Row ran his hand over his wet hair, tipping his head back again and closing his eyes. “Until I didn’t. It was stupid. We would’ve never worked out.” His prominent Adam’s apple bobbed with a visible swallow. “Which was why it fucking killed me. It killed me that all I had to settle for was a quick fuck on the hood of my car. And that all you had to say about it was that it was a mistake and meant nothing to you. So Dylan was doubly pissed-off. Both about your betrayal and about shitting all over my heart.”

Tears ran down my cheeks, warm in contrast with the rain. We were standing in the middle of the street, drawing curious glances from the few people who ran for shelter, holding their umbrellas and coats over their heads.

“I’m so sorry, Row.” I wiped my face with my sleeve. “I thought I was an oddity to you. The ugly duckling who loitered outside your room, hunting for scraps of attention. When I asked you to be my first, it was because I trusted you, and as you’re well aware, I’m skittish around men. Humans scare me. That’s why I’m obsessed with true crime. So I figured…” My throat constricted around my next confession. “I figured you could never love me, could never want something more, and wouldn’t hurt me. A good deal for everyone involved. I was getting rid of my virginity, and you got some no-strings-attached action.”

He scrubbed his face, ignoring the rain that kept on pouring. “Doesn’t matter now. It’s done. Over. I have no feelings for you anymore other than mild annoyance.”

“I know.” I swallowed, but the lump in my throat only grew larger. “I can see you…”

You.

I can see you.

Your pain. Your struggle. Your heartbreak.

You’re wrong. I cared.

Before you were famous. Before you were rich. Before you got into People’s “Sexiest Men Alive” list. Which, by the way, should not have put George Clooney before you. I always cared. You were always so dear to me. Not as a friend. Not as a lover. As Row. The most magnificent man to ever walk the earth.

“Your lips are blue. Let’s get inside.” Row jerked his chin toward the Christmas-decorated door. “It’s Friday. I need all hands on deck at Descartes today. Can’t afford you getting sick.”

“Liar.” I sniffled, finding glee in my avalanche of emotions. “You just want that free coffee I owe you.”

“You read me like an open book,” he sighed. “In German.”

We jogged inside. The place was full to the brim with locals who sent us judgmental looks behind the rims of their coffee cups. Ignoring them, Row collapsed into the only red vinyl booth available. I slid into the seat opposite to him. We were both soaked to the bone.

“Stop looking so happy. You’re ruining my day. And my appetite.” He craned his neck, trying to catch the attention of one of the servers floating between curved booths.

“Can’t help myself.” I squished my cheeks, grinning. “This is not an ego stroke. This is an ego…masturbation. You were kind of my Brain Boyfriend.”

“Brain Boyfriend?” He tilted a thick eyebrow, instinctively wiping the table clean, like it was his restaurant. “As opposed to…Ass Boyfriend? Because that sounds like more my speed.”

“A Brain Boyfriend is the guy that you make movies about in your head. You play-stage dates and vacations and romantic getaways. Like, daydreaming. Before I went to bed, I would play our meet-cute in my head and fall asleep imagining what it would be like.”

It had been a very safe way for me to imagine what a relationship would be like without actually participating in one. I wasn’t asexual. I liked dicks. With my entire heart and my whole vagina. I was just wary of the people attached to them.

“Meet-cute?” He frowned. “But we’d already met.”

“In my dreams, I was someone else. Someone new.”

“Ah, the irony.” He sat back, folding his arms. “In my dreams, you were you. Did Dream Row at least get some NC-17 action?”

“There were a few notable moments.” I coyly collected my wet hair into a high bun. “One of them on a washing machine, even.”

“Were they as traumatic as the real thing?”

“I mean, in one of them I put a red shirt in a cycle full of whites.” I flicked a balled-up straw wrapper his way. “What do you think?”

His lips twitched, fighting a smile, but it broke loose anyway. Oh my. A smiling Ambrose Casablancas could light up the world better than the rising sun. “What other brainy dreams did you make up to avoid the real thing, Dot?”

“Oh…too many to count.” I absentmindedly flipped through the song list of the little jukebox. “Dream job, ultimate kiss, apartment…I can pretty much imagine anything if I put my mind to it.” I tapped my temple. “This baby is all free, and inside it, I’m living my best life.”

“It also doesn’t require you to lift a finger, fail, get burned. You’re missing out on all the real things.”

“Reality is never as good as the dream.” I shrugged. “Why try?”

“Reality is better,” he argued. “It’s gritty and three-dimensional. What’s your dream kiss scenario?”

“It keeps changing. But there are a few ingredients that stay the same. Moonlight, music, and a chin tilt.” I paused. “Shouldn’t you be writing this down?” I needed to stop flirting with him, but I was too excited about this new discovery, and I’d just found the perfect distraction to take my mind off the misery of losing Dad.

“No need. My memory has never failed me.” He brushed his thumb over his lower lip, awarding me with an arousal-induced brain aneurysm.

I laughed awkwardly. “Well, I think we had our run. Hey, wait a minute.” I straightened my back, my eyes widening. “Row, I ran.”

“You did.” His lips twitched again. “Bitched about it the entire time, but you did four miles and some change.”

“No. You don’t understand. I ran.” I stood up, pounding my hands on the table between us, making customers jolt with surprise.

Row folded his arms over his chest, leaning back in his booth smugly. “Told you you’re pretty great.”

“I am, aren’t I?”

“Now you can do it every morning.”

“Are you crazy?” I fell back onto the vinyl, my smile collapsing with me. “You distracted me with a love declaration. I can’t do it without you.”

“Are you crazy?” He unzipped his windbreaker, revealing a tight, short-sleeved white Henley and muscle definition that would make Channing Tatum weep with envy. “I’m not running with you every morning. I just wanted to prove to you that you can.”

“But I want to run the 10K for Kiddies,” I cried out.

“Sounds like a you problem, Dot.”

“We are all one according to Buddhism. So technically, your problem too.”

“Grew up Catholic. So technically, I can tell you to fuck off, then confess I was an ass and say my Hail Marys and still go to heaven. What’s taking them so long to serve us?” He looked around. He was right. It had been ten minutes and we still didn’t even have menus.

“Maybe it’s your BO.” I threw another balled-up straw wrapper at him.

“Maybe it’s your BS,” he retorted, tugging a napkin over, squishing it, and tossing it on my face. “Stay here, gonna inform Dahlia her staff is slacking off.”

“Please don’t be…” I trailed off, wincing. Rude? Disgusting? Overbearing? He stared at me expectedly. “You,” I finished, gulping.

“Gotcha. I’ll try to be Kieran. If you see my tongue trapped in someone’s rectum, send help.” He gave me a once-over. “Unless it’s yours. That’s intentional.”

Oh. My. God.

Row slipped out of the booth before I had the chance to combust into a trillion pieces. He headed toward the red and checked Formica counter, where Dahlia was chewing gum in decibels more fitted to a Taylor Swift concert and banging an order into the computer with her mile-long nails. I perched my chin on my knuckles and drummed my fingers over the table. My mind was still reeling from the revelation that Row had once loved me. That he was McMonster. I couldn’t wait to get home and reread our entire conversation thread starting three years ago.

Calm your tits, Cal, and while you’re at it, tell the rest of you to chill. It wasn’t like we could ever be something now. And for plenty of reasons:

1. He was a famous multimillionaire with one-point-seven million Instagram followers, a Netflix deal, and Michelin-starred restaurants, and I was so broke, I couldn’t afford to feed the rats that were squatting in my apartment.

2. He was moving to London and I was returning to New York.

3. Regardless of what Row had said, Dylan still might not be on board with us knocking boots, and I definitely wasn’t pushing my luck a second time.

4. Just because I wasn’t scared of Row physically, didn’t mean I wasn’t scared of forming a relationship with him.

Through the heavy fog of my overthinking, I heard “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’” by Nancy Sinatra jamming through a nearby jukebox.

I whipped my head to see what was taking Row so long and found him by the register, still talking to Dahlia. A bombshell of a woman in her fifties, with a strong Louisiana accent, big, bleached hair, a slim waist, and enough makeup to cover the state of Idaho. Dahlia was all about Elvis, Jesus, and horses. Her only fear was God. Even He, I suspected, couldn’t comment on her business and get out of it in one piece. One of her faux-lashed eyes was twitching—a telltale sign she was angry—while Row appeared completely blasé, save for the red tips of his ears. Ropes of dread tightened around my stomach. This didn’t seem like a conversation as much as it did a standoff.

Row turned away from her, approaching me with his head held high. “Rain check on that coffee, Dot.”

“Why?” My voice trembled, but I stayed put in the booth.

From behind Row’s back, Dahlia peered at me apologetically.

“Let’s just go,” Row grumbled.

“Are they refusing to serve us?” I scanned the hostile looks daggered at our booth, blush creeping up my neck.

“No.” His nostrils flared. “They’re refusing to serve me. Now can we fucking leave?”

That was why they’d chosen this song on the jukebox. Unbelievable. My inner kindergarten teacher came out swinging, ready to put the whole town of Staindrop in some serious time-out.

“Not before I give her a piece of my mind.” I shot up to my feet, ambling over to Dahlia at the counter. She flinched when I stopped in front of her. Row trailed behind me like a mortified teenager whose mother had decided to go full-blown Karen on kids from his school.

Maybe it was because of his love declaration earlier. Hell, maybe it was because I knew Row needed a break, even if he didn’t show it, but I couldn’t sit there and watch others treat him like dirt.

“Cal, honey!” Dahlia popped her gum in greeting, snatching my hands and squeezing them over the bar. “You look beautiful. Heard ’bout your old man. So sorr—”

“What is this bull crap about you not serving us?” I pulled my hands away, planting them on my waist. My eyes twitched nervously, but I pushed through the tic. Surprised by my directness, Dahlia choked on her bubblegum, slapping her coffin nails to her rib cage with a cough.

“Honey, you’re always welcome in this establishment. There’s a uniform with your name on it if you ever need to make an extra buck. Although you do look like you might need a size up.” Her eyes quickly zipped over my body. “But see, Ambrose here’s another story. The way he’s been doin’ this town dirty—”

“He saved this town.” My palm landed on the counter with a smack, rattling the utensils and coffee cups on it. “Brought at least thirty jobs into Staindrop when he opened Descartes, and he is building the only new construction here in a decade! And, and, and…” I looked around me, registering the agape mouths of every patron at the diner. The Righteous Gang was here too. Agnes, Mildred, and Gertie were huddled around their pioneer breakfast. “He talks about Staindrop in interviews. All the time. He told The Atlantic that it has the best views in America and that everyone should come to see it at least once. To The New York Times, he said that Dahlia’s Diner was the first place he’d ever tasted poached eggs. This man is a regional treasure. How can you treat him like an enemy?”

Okay, so I might’ve googled him one or three thousand times since he’d reentered my life. Sue me for being thorough. Serial killers came in every shape and form. You can never be too careful.

Melinda and Pete were seated in the far corner of the room, murmuring intensely between themselves. A few other locals I recognized from the town hall meeting were following my unfolding public meltdown.

“Sorry, honey.” Dahlia scrunched her nose. “Ambrose Casablancas isn’t our own anymore. Mayor Murray told us all about what he has in store for us. He’s ruinin’ this town, and in Staindrop, we don’t forget.”

“Let me tell you something, Dahl.” I pointed at her with a squint. “If he’s not welcome here, then neither am I. People are treating this man like he is subhuman. Vandalizing his new construction. Slashing his tires. Sending him hate mail—”

“All right, little spitfire. Time to leave.” Row’s fingers curled around my bicep. Desire twirled around my limbs like ivy, sending shivers down my spine. Crap. Keeping him out of my corduroy flared jeans was going to be a struggle. “I’d rather pass a kidney stone than sip the shitty coffee here anyway.” Row pinned Dahlia with a provocative look.

“Excuse me?” Dahlia, whose face was now the color of a crime scene, straightened her back. She flung an accusing finger his way. “You didn’t seem to have any issues with my cuppa joe while growin’ up.”

“I have since developed this thing called taste,” he answered, deadpan, eyes raking her. “Judging by what you did with the place, I trust it doesn’t ring a bell.” He eyed the turquoise walls with distaste.

It was going to be hard to make Grumpy McGrumpson here win people over.

“He didn’t mean it.” I smiled politely.

“Yes, I did.” Row stood his ground, his hand still on my bicep. The fog of desire made it hard for me to breathe.

“Take that back.” Dahlia’s nostrils flared.

“Nah.” He flashed a half-moon smirk. “And your skillet dish? Drier than fucking Lent month in Italy.”

“That’s it.” She pointed at our booth. “Sit your ass back down, and I’ll serve you the best damn coffee your mouth’s ever tasted.”

“Dahlia!” Melinda gasped, a forkful of maple-drenched pancake midway to her mouth. “We had an arrangement.”

“I hereby unarrange it.” Dahlia’s lips thinned into a snarl, and she seemed determined to prove Row wrong. She rounded the counter, grabbing two menus and the lobe of his ear. “He called my eggs dry and my coffee shitty.”

“So is your customer service.” Row doubled down, head tilted to one side. Laughter bubbled in my chest. Row remained Row, even famous and rich.

“Your mother won’t be happy to hear from me about your manners, young man. I’ll be exchanging some words with her later today,” Dahlia threatened.

“Words are fine, as long as you don’t exchange recipes. My sister won’t survive your cooking.”

I touched his arm briefly, trailing behind him. “Not helping our cause of winning hearts and minds, Casablancas.”

“That’s your dream, Cal. Not mine.” He wormed out of Dahlia’s hold, throwing me a mischievous smirk. “I’d rather be hated for who I am than loved for who I’m not.” Of course he was a Kurt Cobain fan. He had the same grungy, don’t-give-a-fuck air about him.

“Thanks, Dahlia. For serving us that coffee.” I shoved Row back into our booth. “We’ll take it with two eggs sunny side up, hash browns, sausage, and a side of fruit. No cantaloupe.”

“Don’t wanna stay where I’m not welcome,” Row grumbled. At this point, I was just pushing him as an excuse to touch him more. “And I definitely don’t want the heart attack that comes with whatever she calls breakfast.”

“Well, we’re staying here as a matter of principle. I don’t like the way these people are treating you. We are not letting them win.” We sat back down.

“Even if we lose?” He scowled at me.

“Even if we lose.” I nodded, aggressively unwrapping my utensils. “We’re going to eat every bite, drink every ounce of coffee, and by God, we are going to pretend to enjoy it.”