Freya got pregnant young, and her parents threw her out of the house. Fifteen years later, they showed up to see their daughter and grandson. What they saw left them staggered…

I’ll run it over myself. He held up a hand, cutting her off, then locked eyes with her, cool blue piercing. Dry cleaning’s fine, he said, voice low and clipped.

But I’ve got a meeting in an hour. You want to fix this? Bring me something to wear till it’s done. Freya blinked, panic spiking.

Something to wear? I, uh, okay. Give me twenty minutes. She bolted to the kitchen, dodging a busboy, and begged Rosie for a break.

It’s an emergency. I’ll be back, promise. Rosie, a wiry woman with a smoker’s rasp, just waved her off with a grunt.

She sprinted the four blocks home, sweat sticking her shirt to her back, and burst into Eleanor’s house. Sigrid was at school. Eleanor napping.

Perfect. She raided the hall closet, shoving past mothballed coats until she found it. Grandpa Earl’s old corduroy jacket, a relic from the seventies, brown and patched at the elbows, smelling faintly of pipe tobacco.

It’d have to do. Back at the diner, panting, she thrusted at the man. Here.

It’s not fancy, but it’s clean. He took one look, the faded fabric, the frayed cuffs, and burst out laughing, a deep, unexpected sound, that rolled through the quiet diner. Freya froze, then cracked a nervous grin.

It’s… a… vintage? Vintage, he echoed, still chuckling as he shrugged it on. It hung loose on his frame, clashing wildly with his polished slacks, but he rolled with it. Name’s Lance.

You’ve got guts. I’ll give you that. Freya, she said, wiping her hands on her apron.

And I’m really, really sorry about the suit. Lance waved it off, adjusting the jacket. Meeting’s about to start.

We’ll settle up after. He grabbed his soggy briefcase and headed to a booth in the back, where Rosie, of all people, slid in across from him. Freya’s jaw dropped.

She hovered by the counter, pretending to wipe it down, as snippets floated over. Prime location. Development deal.

Offers firm. Later, after Lance left, Corduroy swapped for his freshly-cleaned suit. Rosie filled her in, lighting a cigarette out back.

Guy’s a land shark. Been sniffing around this plot for months. Wants to bulldoze us for some strip mall or condo crap.

Freya’s stomach sank. The diner wasn’t just her job. It was her lifeline.

Her savings backbone. If Lance bought it out, all those years of coffee-can pennies might dissolve into nothing. The next afternoon, Freya stood at the corner of main and elm, clutching Lance’s dry-cleaned suit in a plastic bag.

The sun beat down, glinting off Springfield’s sleepy storefronts, but her nerves buzzed like a live wire. She was mad. Fuming, really, at Lance’s slick land-grab scheme, at the threat to the diner that had been her rock for over a decade.

When he strolled up, still sharp in a different suit, grey this time, no Corduroy in sight, she thrust the bag at him, her jaw tight. Thanks for this, Lance said, taking it with a nod. How much do I owe you for the cleaning? Freya scowled, crossing her arms.

Keep your money. I don’t want it. He paused, eyebrows lifting as he clocked her tone.

Hey, everything OK? You look like you’re ready to deck me. Why would you care? She snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. You’re just some land shark, right? Swooping in, not giving a damn about people like me, regular folks who actually need places like the diner to survive.

Lance went still, his easy charm faltering. For a beat, he just looked at her, those blue eyes unreadable. Then he tipped his head, hatless today, just a slight nod, and turned on his heel.

Fair enough, he muttered, walking off without another word, the suit bag swinging at his side. Freya watched him go, her anger simmering down to a dull ache. She figured that was that.

Another man proving her instincts right. But the next morning at Rosie’s, something was off. She pushed through the diner’s swinging door, apron half-tied, and froze.

Everyone, cooks, waitresses, even the old guy who nursed coffee at the counter all day, stared at her, grinning like they’d won the lottery. What? She demanded, hands on her hips. What’s with the faces? Rosie barrelled out of the kitchen, her smoker’s rasp softened by a huge, toothy grin.

You’re a damn miracle worker, that’s what. That Lance guy called last night, said he’s dropping the land deal. Won’t touch the diner unless you say yes to dinner with him.

Freya’s jaw hit the floor. Dinner? With me? Her mind spun. Fifteen years.

No dates. No flings. Nothing.

After Owen, she’d locked that door and melted the key. Men were trouble. She’d learned that the hard way.

Her life was secret, Eleanor, the diner. End of story. And now this suit-wearing stranger waltzed in, dangling her livelihood like a carrot.

It stank of a set-up. This is nuts, she muttered, rubbing her temples. What’s his angle? Dunno, Rosie said, shrugging.

But the diner’s safe, for now. You’re cool, kid. Freya stewed on it all day, the clatter of plates and chatter of customers, a fuzzy backdrop.

By evening, curiosity and a nagging what-if won out. She called Lance, voice clipped. Fine, dinner.

But it’s at the diner, my turf. Tomorrow, six sharp. Done, he said, a smile in his voice.

See you then. The next night, Rosie’s was quiet, just the hum of the fridge and the sizzle of the grill. Freya picked a corner booth, still in her work jeans and a faded green tea.

No fuss, no frills. Lance showed up on time, toned down in slacks and a button-up, no tie. He slid in across from her and she didn’t waste a second.

Before you get any ideas, she said, leaning forward, elbows on the table. I’ve got a son. I’m raising him alone and I take care of my grandma too.

If you’re looking for some carefree fling or a woman without ties, I’m not it. And if this is just a quick thing for you, tell me now. I don’t play games….