In any case, she'd made a promise to herself to avoid any new relationships for at least a year. She owed it to herself to keep that promise.

Not that he'd want her anyway.

She headed back to the kitchen, hooking a loose hank of hair behind her ear as she went, and placed the order she'd just taken. It was lunchtime, and the diner was crowded with downtowners grabbing a quick bite before they headed back to the office. Nobody wanted to go very far in February; Mike's Downtown Diner was good enough in this kind of Minnesota cold. The sounds of conversation and clattering silverware nearly drowned out the piped-in music, and it felt hot in the small restaurant.

Normally, when she wasn't so distracted, this was the time of day when she hit her groove. Her whole reality became the synchronization of taking orders, serving food, and refilling drinks. The time went fast and smooth. The rhythm of lunchtime at the diner was like the clackety-clack of well-oiled train wheels speeding down a track.

She was good at her job, able to sense people's needs with a natural intuitiveness that she'd had her whole life. Her regular customers always commented on how she'd show up right as they were thinking about ordering a side of fries or a slice of blueberry pie. Okay, so she wasn't curing cancer, but at least she was being a productive member of society. Plus, the tips weren't bad. Mira was saving up to go back to school and finish her degree in psychology. She had no intention of being a professional waitress for the rest of her life.

"Mira, order up!" Mike called from the kitchen.

She picked up her order and headed out to deliver it, making her way through the crowded diner toward table seven. It was right next to table eight where Mr. Gorgeous still nursed his coffee. She painted on a wide give-me-a-good-tip smile and served the man at table seven his meal. He looked like some middle-management guy struggling his way up the corporate ladder. After working at the diner for the last six months, she'd gotten a good feel for the lunchtime crowd.

"Can I get you anything else right now, sir?" she asked brightly.

The man looked up from his plate and focused on her necklace. "You some kinda Satanist?”

Her smile collapsed and shock rippled through her at the angry tone of the man's voice. Her hand flew to the pentagram around her neck. Damn, she'd forgotten to take it off before her shift.

Scorn followed the shock. This guy never would've said anything if she'd been wearing a crucifix. People instantly equated the pentagram with Satanism, even though it had nothing to do with it. Normally, she'd give him a lesson in religious sensitivity, but this wasn't the time or the place.

"No," she answered coldly. "I'm not a Satanist. Can I get you anything else, sir?”