She pushed in out of the blizzard, shaking snow from her hair. The bell over the diner door gave a thin, cheerful clang that sounded almost apologetic against the roar of wind outside. Meltwater already darkened the mustard suede of her coat; flakes clung to the shearling collar like confetti that had forgotten how to celebrate. She stamped her boots once, then again, and looked toward the chrome counter where a man in a white apron stood wiping circles that did not need wiping.
"Please tell me you're open."
He looked up from wiping the counter, towel on his shoulder. One dark strand had escaped the slicked-back rest of his hair and fallen across his forehead. Stubble shadowed his jaw. A small tattoo marked his forearm just below the cuff of his white T-shirt. The pendant lamps cast warm pools of amber over red vinyl stools and paper turkey decorations taped crookedly to the pass-through window, where the kitchen glowed like a hearth.
"Technically, no."
"Technically, I'm starving."