“Hell, no. You're always a Reaper until you are buried in the ground, one way or another,” Waylon answers.

I jolt. I was so intent on getting all of the tea from Meemaw, I forgot Waylon was still here, sitting at the table with me.

I turn back around to ask him, “But you started this town. Why? Because you wanted to settle down like the other Reapers?”

Waylon grabs a napkin from the stand on the table and swipes it over his mouth before saying, “I got shit to do. You need anything before I go?”

I jut my chin forward. “You mean other than money and a ride to the closest bus station so I can go back to Delaware and deal with the mess you made of my life?”

He drops the napkin on his plate, cranks his head to the side then says, “Angel?”

“Yes?” I ask, a little surprised to hear him call me that again.

He regards me, his expression hungry, even though he just finished breakfast. “This is where we’re supposed to be.”

One sentence…and an untrue one at that. But the memory rears up again. Him on top of me…. reassuring me of that very same thing with his cock embedded deep in my pussy….

That memory comes blazing back, and a wave of lust washes over me now, just like it did last September.

Meanwhile, Waylon abruptly stands up and heads for the door.

“Thanks for breakfast, Meemaw,” he says on his way out. “No talking from you tomorrow, and make sure to have bacon. Sausage patties ain’t my thing.”

“Sure thing,” Meemaw calls from her bedroom doorway.

The agreeable words are barely out of her mouth before the door closes behind him.

“Does he boss everyone around that way?” I ask her in his wake.

Meemaw just shrugs. “It's his town. That means he can talk to us whatever way he wants.”

I look to the side. “That's not how most towns work.”

“Well, that’s exactly how Waylon Fairgood’s town works,” Meemaw answers with a little laugh. “And believe me, it’s worth taking a few orders with everything we’re getting.”

Before I can reply, a knock sounds on the door—a lot gentler than the one Waylon woke her up with last night.

“Oh, that’s probably Lucinda with your clothes.”

Meemaw crosses the short distance from her bedroom to open the door. “Lucinda! How are you this morning?”

“Oh, I'm good,” a cheery voice answers. She has a thick accent—but not southern. And not exactly Mexican, Puerto Rican, or any of the Caribbean-based ones that often come through the E.R. Maybe she hails from somewhere in South America?

“I passed Waylon on the way over here,” she says. “How did the breakfast date go?”

Wait, did the entire town know about our date?