Page 22 of Four Steps to the Perfect Fake Date

“You got the contractor’s name?”

“Jerry Barela of Barela Contracting.”

Flint nodded. “He’s got an office here in town. We’ll go talk to him tomorrow.”

Daphne blinked. “‘We’? As in, you and me?”

“You’re the one with the information. You might as well be there to ask the questions.”

“Oh. Okay.”

A slow smile spread on the sheriff’s lips. It looked wicked and teasing, and it made a strange sensation tighten in Daphne’s gut. “You nervous, Cupcake?”

Straightening her shoulders, she glared. “Of course not. I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night.” Whirling on her heels, she strode out of the station without looking back. It was a short walk to her apartment, where she didn’t even bother heading upstairs before jumping in her car and heading to the north of the island, where her parents lived. She’d be late for dinner, but she wanted to check on her grandmother. If that took her far away from a certain sheriff, well, that was just an added bonus.

Grandma Mabel was completely fine, basking in the fame generated by her accident. She sat in an armchair in the living room with a drink in one hand and her phone in the other, regaling whoever was on the line with a play-by-play of the events.

Daphne waved at her and wandered into the kitchen, where she found her father cleaning up the dishes from dinner. “Hey, Dad.”

“Daphne! I left your plate in the oven.”

“Ooh! Shepherd’s pie. Yum.”

“Seemed like a day for comfort food,” Claude replied, scrubbing a saucepan. “Heard you took a beating today. Another beating.” He gave her a significant look.

“I wouldn’t say it was a beating. I got tackled. I’m fine.”

“Your grandmother’s been fabricating details in every retelling, then. To hear her talk about it, you went toe to toe with a pro boxer.”

Daphne groaned as she pulled her plate from the oven. “I’ll never hear the end of it.” She tucked in to the dinner and let out a long sigh. Even though she’d never exactly felt like she fit in with her own family, it still felt good to be able to sit in the kitchen at their old wooden table and eat a home-cooked meal. Her dad was a great cook.

“Did you know Grandma used to bake bread?” she asked.

Her father leaned against the edge of the sink as he dried the saucepan. “Mabel? Of course. She’s the one who got me hooked.”

“She told me she stopped when her favorite pot got stolen.”

A rough grunt escaped her father’s lips as he nodded. He put the saucepan away and grabbed a handful of utensils to dry. “That was a whole drama. Brenda Sallow. They used to play nice, but they hated each other. Brenda denied ever taking the pot, but everyone knew.”

“And Grandma never tried to get it back?”

“Oh, she tried! Of course she tried. But Brenda must have hidden it anytime they went over, and when she found your grandmother snooping through her cupboards, Brenda kicked her out, and that was the end of that.”

“What was so special about the pot?”

Claude let out a little puff of breath and shrugged. “It was Mabel’s mother’s. A family heirloom, I guess you could say. And it did make good bread. Perfect crust every time. I bought her a new one a year or so later, but she told me to keep it. Had no interest in bread.”

“That was it. No more baking for Grandma.”

Claude nodded and put the silverware away while Daphne ate her dinner. It was petty and absurd to give up a hobby because of one stolen pot, but Daphne could understand it. Her family was full of stubborn, righteous people.

Daphne was the one who’d always been willing to bend. She compromised for the sake of peace and stability. If her precious heirloom pot had been stolen, she probably would have tried to reason her way into getting it back, then just let it drop and bought a new one. She would’ve folded.

When her father sat across from her, Daphne looked up.

“How are you doing?” he asked quietly.

“I’m good. Work’s good. I like my apartment.”

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