Page 58 of Stolen Dreams

Sweat beads my skin as I wait for Dad to say something. To ask why we’re out with Kaya. I clench my hands in my lap, then wipe my palms down my thighs.

I shouldn’t be this nervous but know I’ll always question if my parents think who I’m seeing isgood enough. I shouldn’t give their opinion so much weight, but a part of me will always want their approval. Seems childish, but I want my parents to be proud of my choices, whether it’s work or parenting or love.

“Wish I could hang out and play putt-putt.” Dad guides Tucker to his seat and takes the other empty chair. “But it’s one of the busiest Sundays of the year.”

Tucker leans into Dad and rests his head on his arm. “You, me, and Grandma can go a different day.”

Dad wraps an arm around Tucker’s shoulders. “I like the sound of that, T-Man.” Dark-brown eyes identical to mine glance across the table. “Kaya, correct?”

Oh shit.

“Sorry.” I wince. “Wasn’t thinking.” I clasp my hands under the table and squeeze until my knuckles burn. “Dad, this is Kaya Imala. She works at the school but is helping with the cooking classes this summer.” Twisting in my seat, my knee grazes Kaya’s thigh, and we both freeze for a breath. “Kaya”—I swallow past the desert in my mouth—“this is my father, Ray Jr.”

Seems foolish to introduce them to each other. My family and the Imalas are familiar to the townsfolk. Dad undoubtedly knows Kaya’s parents.

At some point, my family has fed every resident at one of our restaurants. From lattes, bagels, and breakfast sandwiches to a twist on classic diner dishes to gourmet chocolates and fine dining, the Calhoun-Kemp restaurants are a pillar in the Stone Bay community.

Aside from being a founding family, Kaya’s parents are the highest-rated doctors in their field in Stone Bay. People travel here to consult with Tikaani Imala, one of the top five cardiologists in the Pacific Northwest. It’s nearly impossible for residents to not know her family.

The Calhouns may not be founders, but we are synonymous with the Stone Bay upper hierarchy. A social scale my parents and grandparents care about way too much. A ladder they’ve been eager to climb for too many years but are now realizing they’ve plateaued.

Soft lines curve up at the corners of Kaya’s eyes as she smiles at Dad. “Wonderful to meet you.” She offers her hand. “Your homemade chili and cornbread onion rings are a secret indulgence of mine.”

Dad takes her hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Your secret’s safe with me.” He winks. “Maybe one day you can teach me your family’s caribou stew recipe.”

What?

Here I am, shirt damp with sweat in several places, fingers drumming my thighs, heart ready to evacuate my chest… and Dad asks about a stew recipe.

What the hell is happening?

While I mentally spiral, Dad and Kaya chat as though they talk more often than we do.

The idea of coming here and bumping into Dad has had me on edge since I suggested it. I don’tneedmy parents’ approval for anything, but Iwantit. I figured a chance encounter at the diner would be safer than a stuffy family dinner where my parents scare Kaya off.

What I didn’t picture was a smooth bump in. Seems too good to be true.

Dad unhooks his arm from Tucker’s shoulders then gives the table two gentle taps. “Need to get back in the kitchen.” Wood grates tile as he scoots the chair back. “Nice to officially meet you, Kaya. Hope to see you more.”

Nice, Dad. Real sly.

But as he walks away from the table, a single thought rolls over and over in my head.

I hope to see more of her too.

“I am the king of putt-putt,” Tucker declares as his ball sinks on the second stroke of the final hole. He throws both arms skyward and tips his head back. “Victory is mine.”

Snort-laughter rips from my throat as I stare at my little man.

I don’t dare stifle his ego or zeal. Don’t extinguish his light by telling him to take it down a notch. If anything, I encourage this side of him. Boost it and him every opportunity I get. Add to his exuberance with a little of my own. Let him be a kid and enjoy this carefree time in his life, especially since his mother stole years of it from him.

Arms out, I bend at the hips. “I bow down to you, Almighty Putt-Putt King.”

Beside me, Kaya giggles under her breath.

I playfully nudge her. “If you wish for the putt-putt gods to shower you with luck on your next game, you must bow to His Highness,” I quip.

At this, she laughs harder, louder, then follows through and does a curtsy.

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