It’s been too long since I got laid and even longer since I dated anybody, so I’m going to chalk up my body’s reaction to pure need. But there’s something about Annie that I like. And I don’t like many people.

  “So, where you taking me?” I ask, expecting anything from her—a seafood buffet, hole-in-the-wall taco joint. Hell, I’d eat a salad if that’s what she wants.

  But when we pull into the parking lot of a nearly empty restaurant a few minutes later, I realize there is nothing predictable about this woman.

  “You’re kidding me,” I say, eyeing the sign. “Pancake Circus?”

  She turns off the engine and claps her hands. “Yes,” she croons. “This is my happy place.” She unbuckles the belt and practically leaps out of the car. “And after the day I’ve had, I need this. Come on.”

  Pancake Circus looks more like a carnival nightmare than a comfort eatery. The once bright and colorful sign has faded, thanks to God knows how many years baking in the Florida sun. The garish smiles of the circus clowns have mostly melted off, oddly leaving just the dark eyes to stare down at customers as they walk across the pitted asphalt of a parking lot large enough to host a three-ring circus. With real estate as expensive as it is, this place must do good business. I can’t imagine how many pancakes they have to sell just to cover the taxes.

  But what I can’t look away from as we approach the restaurant is Annie. She’s bouncing on her flip-flops, her dark-blond braid over one shoulder, her long legs flexing with every step. She’s so excited, it’s hard not to crack a grin. I almost break into a jog just to keep up.

  “Come on,” she calls again, yanking open the glass door.

  I shake my head as a blast of ice-cold air conditioning hits me, followed by an assault of smells so good, I have to rethink my previous opinion of the place.

  It smells nothing like stale peanuts and carnie sweat in here like I’d envisioned.

  Fruit sauces, vanilla, and sizzling bacon hit my nose, and my mouth starts to water before we even hit the hostess stand.

  “Mmm, I love it,” Annie moans and fans the air in front of her face to take in more of the food smells. She closes her eyes for just a second, and a dreamy look comes over her face until a waitress in exactly the type of kitschy uniform I’d expect from a place like this comes back around from seating another couple.

  “Annie.” The woman shoves a pair of red plastic glasses up on her nose and grabs two menus so big, the Bible could be printed inside. “Table or booth, my sweet gal?”

  “Booth, please,” Annie says, a huge grin on her face. “Thank you, Carlene.”

  Carlene? Clearly, Annie wasn’t lying when she said it’s her favorite place. She’s on a first-name basis with the server, which is more than I can say for myself at any restaurant in the country.

  The woman checks a table map of the restaurant, marks off a space with a dry erase marker, and then looks up at me. “Well, holy hell, kid,” she barks, lifting perfectly painted-on black brows at me. “Where you been hiding him?”

  Annie flushes and steps a little closer to me. She lightly rests her hand in the crook of my arm. “Carlene, this is Josh.”

  Carlene turns to me, all five-feet-nothing of her, and looks me up and down. “Oh honey, he’s tastier than the Big Top Special…”

  I can’t help but grin at that and casually lace my fingers through Annie’s as we follow Carlene to a booth. Can’t hurt to keep the lie going, even here, right? At least that’s what I tell myself as Carlene looks back at us, shaking her head and grinning from ear to ear.

  She drops the menus on the table and watches as I wait for Annie to sit, then slide into the red leather seat across from her.

  “You sure you want to do that?” Carlene asks me.

  “I’m sorry?” I say, not sure what she means.

  Carlene leans down, and I get a whiff of perfume and hair spray. “Annie’s a catch,” she tells me. “And if she’s with you, you are too. I wouldn’t sit across from her when you can get right up close there, Josh.”

  She gives me a friendly squeeze on the shoulder, and I laugh.

  “Be back with waters for the table, kids,” she calls, then heads out across brightly patterned carpet.

  Once we’re alone, Annie pushes a menu at me across the table. “Now,” she says, her voice light and excited, “I’m not going to tell you what to get, but I will make very strongly worded suggestions based on what you like.”

  She cracks open the menu—literally cracks because the thing is huge, and the brittle plastic that holds the paper inserts in place is so old and faded, it is breaking in parts. “Okay,” she says, not looking at me but skimming the menu. “Are you a breakfast for dinner guy? Or should I look at the entrees?”

  As I watch Annie get this enthusiastic about ordering a meal, I can feel a stupid smile crawl across my face. I can’t help it. She’s fucking gorgeous, and when she’s not in fear for her life, she’s as light as the Florida sun.

  “What are you having?” I ask. To be perfectly honest, I don’t care whether I eat a burger or a breakfast burrito. I just want to go along with whatever Annie’s doing.

  “Okay, okay,” she says, pursing her lips into a little bow. “I am normally a breakfast girl, but tonight, I’m… No, no, who am I kidding? We’re doing breakfast.” She holds up a finger. “First question. Bacon or sausage?”

  “Love ’em both,” I tell her. “But if I had to pick, bacon.”

  “Okay, okay,” she says again. “Now this is a tough one…fried chicken or bacon?”

  “Fuck,” I say. “That’s a tough one. Both?”

  She claps her hands and laughs. “Yes. I knew I liked you. Okay, so let me do the ordering. Do you have any allergies? Any absolute yucks?”

  “Absolute yucks…” I echo her words because I can’t believe anyone actually talks like that. But coming from her, it’s fucking adorable. “No,” I tell her. “Maybe shrimp.”

  “Oh my God, me too. Crab—yum. Lobster, to die for. But anything that might make it to my plate with its poop still in it…” She shudders. “No thank you.” She grabs my menu and pulls it toward her just as Carlene returns with two red plastic glasses filled to the brim with ice water.

  “All right, you sexy beasts, whatcha having?” Carlene holds an old-fashioned pad of paper in her hand and a pen that she uses to scrawl our orders.

  “Drink?” Annie asks me. “The cotton candy lemonade is actually really good. It’s pink but not sweet at all.”

  “How about just an iced tea?” I say, a tiny bit worried about trusting my stomach to a woman who praises cotton candy lemonade.

  Carlene nods. “We’ve got passion fruit punch, raspberry, and the old-fashioned type.” She pokes me in the shoulder with her pen. “Get the raspberry. Trust me. It’s absolutely delicious and not sweet at all, or at least not too much.”

  If I don’t have a medical condition by the time I leave this place, I’ll be shocked. But I take Carlene’s advice and go with the raspberry.

  “Elephant Shake for you tonight, babe?” Carlene asks.

  Wait. Did I hear that right?

  “An elephant shake?” I echo.

  “Peanut butter with a tiny peanut butter cookie on top,” Annie explains, looking skyward as if it’s the most heavenly thing in the entire universe. “No, you know what? I’m actually feeling like coffee, Carlene. I think I could use the caffeine.”

  “You got it, gorgeous.” Carlene grabs the menus and tucks them under her writing pad, then takes our food order.

  I try not to roll my eyes when Annie orders our food, but it’s pretty tough when she asks for Corn Dog Chicken and Waffle Pancakes and a Lion Tamer Number Three.

  “Annie,” I say once Carlene walks off. “If you want to fire me, you can just say it. No need to kill me with circus food.”

  She shakes her head, a sweet smile on her lips. “If this isn’t the best meal you’ve eaten all month, I’ll pay for dinner,” she vows. But then she grows serious. “Don’t even talk about me firing you. I don’t know what I would have done without you today.”

  She looks down at the table where her fingers are laced together tightly.

  “Can we talk?” I ask. “Real talk?”

  Those sea-blue eyes meet mine and she nods. “Yeah, of course. What happens now?”

  “We find you someplace safe to stay for at least tonight. Tomorrow, I start digging.”

  She shakes her head. “But where? How? Don’t I have to go back to school? I mean, if whoever broke in to my room is the same person who is sending…you know… Then…shouldn’t I be at school to get the next letter?”

  I lean forward on my elbows and lower my voice. “Annie, we have to assume whoever is leaving the notes is the person who broke in to your room. And I don’t think there’s any question that whoever is behind all this is intimately familiar with your schedule. I don’t think you lost your keys, Annie. I think someone took them.”

  She leans back against the booth as her eyes widen.

  I reach across the table for her hands. “Uh, babe…” I remind her of our cover story. “Try not to look so freaked out, okay? You’re safe with me.”

  She squeezes my hand, and I meet her eyes until her breathing slows. She pulls her hands from mine and clenches her fists in her lap. Just because I can’t see them under the booth doesn’t mean I don’t know she’s panicking.

  “Listen,” I tell her. “Let’s play out the scenarios. Best case, it’s one person with an ax to grind against you. Maybe it has to do with you getting into the school, maybe not. The fact is, the situation is escalating. The letters started out accusing. Then they made a demand. You got the last letter this morning? Before or after the keys went missing?”

  She swallows hard and schools her face into a happy grin as Carlene brings us back our drinks. She sets a large mug of steaming coffee in front of Annie and an enormous glass of raspberry tea in front of me. Then she puts her hands on her hips. “Go on,” she says, nodding at me. “Tell me that ain’t the best damn tea you’ve had.”

  I drag my gaze away from Annie and take a sip of the tea, praying it doesn’t taste like puddle water. The reaction I have when I swallow that first taste is sincere.

  “Carlene, if everything in this place is that good, I’m going to ask you to marry me.” I take another long sip while Carlene cackles and sets a bowl full of flavored creamers and a sugar dispenser in front of Annie.

  “This one’s a keeper,” she says, cocking her head toward me.

  “I think so too,” Annie says softly, her face warming.

  When Carlene leaves us again, I pick up where we left off. “Annie,” I start, “I think there’s no other way to look at this. You’re in danger. There is someone who knows your routine at school, has access to you. The guy or woman, because it could be a woman, blends in. Looks like he or she belongs there. You can’t trust anyone on that campus or anyone affiliated with it.”

  She looks down, and a single tear drips from her cheek onto the table. It crushes my heart into a million fucking pieces.

  “Hey,” I say, tapping a finger on the table.

  I want to reach out. I want to take her hands again and hold them. Reassure her. But that’s a dangerous impulse. I’ve already let things get too real between us.

  Us dating is a lie, a game we’re playing. A way for me to explain my presence in her life so I can keep her safe.

  What I feel when I touch Annie is the opposite of safe. That’s how I know I have to dial things back.

  I swipe at the beads of water on the outside of my glass so the urge to touch her doesn’t take over. “It’s all right. We’re going to figure this out, Annie. We’re going to go to the police and make a report. About both the break-in in your room and the letters.”

  “And then what?” she asks miserably. “I had the money to pay you for ten hours, Josh. And that’s only because you are practically giving away your time. Now that I have to find another place to stay…” She trails off, shaking her head. “Maybe I should just give them what they want. Maybe…I should drop out of school.”

  I’d be lying if I said the thought hadn’t crossed my mind. But first, I need to know how important this program really is to her. Maybe if I understand why it matters so much, I’ll be able to understand why it means so much to whoever is harassing her. And that’s if we’re even on the right track with that.

  For all I know, the letters have nothing to do with the program she’s in. The lack of campus security means literally anyone with a grudge against Annie could be tormenting her.

  “Annie,” I say, “why is this program so important? Let’s start there. I don’t know a damn thing about art, so school me.”

  My pun brings a half smile to her face. She sips her coffee and lets out a pleasurable sigh. “It’s the weirdest thing, grad school,” she says. “I feel like the biggest hurdle is feeling like you’re good enough to get in. My family wasn’t super educated. Dad went to community college and then got an undergrad degree while he worked in manufacturing. He had management aspirations and they paid for college, but I’m sure he wouldn’t have gone, otherwise. My mom…”

  A shadow crosses her face as she talks about her mom.

  “Mom started working as a legal secretary right out of high school. She was an actual secretary, though, you know? She answered calls and greeted guests. I think the law office environment is what made my dad think of being a lawyer after she passed. Mom loved her job. The firm she worked at handled only immigration cases, and Mom was just so good with people. She loved that what they did there really helped people solve problems and change their lives. At least, that’s what my dad has always told me.”

  As she talks, she sorts the creamers into piles on the table, stacking them by flavor. It’s a nervous habit, I think, but it’s cute. I can see her adjusting and twisting the plastic cups so the labels all face different directions. It’s like she’s making art with the most colorful thing at hand.

  The urge to touch her, to hold her hand, comes over me, but I grab my iced tea and take a long drink. I need to cool off.

  “So anyway,” she continues, “I fell in love with art while Dad was in law school. But to be the kind of artist that sells work or has gallery shows… It’s not easy. You need to network and know all sorts of people. And you know, it takes time to produce the art itself. I thought grad school would give me the space and time to invest fully in everything I need to do to make this a career, but maybe this isn’t what I was meant to do after all.”

  “Can I see it?” I ask. “Your art?”

  Annie’s face lights up like I’ve shined a spotlight on her. “Seriously? Heck yeah.” She sets her cell phone on the table and swipes to open an album of photos. “This is just stuff I’ve made since school started,” she says. “If you keep scrolling, you can tell by the background what’s older. That’s the kitchen table in my old apartment, which I never actually ate on.” She laughs and hands me her phone.

  I pick it up and swipe through the images, stunned at what I’m seeing. “What is this?” I ask her. “You made these?”

  I can’t tell the difference between textile art and a kitchen towel, but what I’m seeing is blowing my mind. Photo after photo captures lifelike images of things painted but not with paint. Sewn with thread or scraps of fabric.

  “This shit looks real,” I tell her, unable to hold back the awe in my voice. “How do you do it?”

  She looks pleased with my compliments. Her smile is almost as big as when she announced we were going to her happy place. She shrugs as if it’s no big deal, but I can’t stop staring.

  “I can hardly sign my own name legibly, but this… Fuck, Annie. I can’t believe there’s a damn thing they could teach you in that program that you’re not already doing. You’re goddamn talented.”

  She’s still preening under my praise when she slides out of her side of the booth and comes around to sit beside me. “Look,” she says. “This is my problem.”

  I’m still holding the phone, but she reaches over my hand and swipes through the images with a finger.

  “This,” she says, “embroidered still life. Fruit in a bowl. Nothing fancy.”

  “But it’s fucking cool.” I can’t see how anyone could look at apples, bananas, and a pineapple that look textural and real, made out of fucking threads, and not be impressed.

  “But then this.” She swipes to a face, a portrait in black, white, and grays. The picture looks dated, like it could have been taken in the seventies. But again, it’s not a picture. It’s a woman in a convertible car with a pair of sunglasses made from scraps of leather and fabric. I think when I use my fingers to zoom into the detail, there are buttons and other small metal pieces in the piece as well. “And then this one.”

  The next thing she shows me, I don’t know what to think. It’s a three-dimensional rose that looks like it’s growing from a cracked mirror. It gives off a darker vibe. The edges of the bright red rose are wine-colored and curled like the rose is dying.

  “This is my problem.” She takes the phone back, but she doesn’t return to her side of the booth. Her arm lightly brushes mine, and a wave of heat travels through my body. “I don’t have a message. A brand. Any collection I make would be a mishmash of things that are meaningful to me. But that’s the difference between craft-fair artists and fine artists. Consumers might buy my stuff, but not galleries. Not collectors. I’m not trying to shit on anyone’s art. It’s a miracle when someone is willing to pay their hard-earned money for art in any form and at any price.” She sighs, and unless I’m imagining it, I feel the heat of her thigh close to mine. “I was hoping to discover myself in school. Find my voice, so to speak.”

  Just then, Carlene bustles over carrying a huge tray weighed down with plates. “Oh, I like the looks of this,” she says, waggling dark brows at us. “You two are some kind of cute together.” She sets down a platter-sized plate in front of me and a second in front of Annie. “Enjoy, kids,” she says. She tucks the tray under an arm and points at me. “You need anything, you holler.” She sets a stack of paper napkins on the table and leaves us.