Page 7 of Battle of the Exes

“House pancakes and a chocolate croissant, please.” Rue orders for both of us, the waitress not bothering to write it down.

Thanks to the divine aroma, my mouth is already watering.

The café owner shuffles over. She’s aged dramatically but the twinkle in her eye hasn’t changed. “Hey, Rue.”

She turns to me, furrowing her brow as if trying to place me. Then her eyes widen. “Well, I’ll be. Look what the cat dragged in.”

“Hi Mae, how are you?”

She’s staring now. “As I live and breathe.”

“I’ve been waiting decades for another taste of your pancakes.”

Her brow furrows. “Where did you disappear to?”

“New York City.”

Mae makes a face, and I can’t help but laugh. Small town disdain for the big city prevails.

We catch up for a bit. Her most recent husband died six years ago, her daughter moved to Boulder, and her plan is to die on her hundredth birthday, serving her famous pancakes.

“You hear Jasper Kensington is coming to town?” she asks.

My gaze shifts to the glass display. Custom-made cookies with Jasper’s book covers are front and center.

“Yep, can’t wait to meet him.” To Rue, I say, “How exactly did you pull that off?”

She looks away. “I had help.”

I sense there’s more but the waitresssets a plate of giant pancakes in front of me, maple syrup oozing off the sides. Rue’s croissant looks like it just came out of the oven.

We spend the next half hour falling into a sugar coma.

Chapter Five

Beau

“You know, you oughta consider dying your hair. Your gray is taking over,” Jasper says from the passenger seat of my truck.

He runs a careful hand through the thick hair glued to his noggin.

“Nah, I’m good,” I say.

“Seriously, Beau, the ladies will think you’re much older than you are.” Then, “How old are you, anyway?”

At the traffic light, I hand him the week’s itinerary. Bookstores, libraries, community centers. He barely glances at it.

“Forty-five.”

He’s eyeing me like I’m twice that. The guy has a magic ability to get under people’s skin. Which I suppose is why he’s my client. Not only because he chose me butbecause I’ve come to realize no one else could put up with him for as long as I have. Turns out, some things matter more than money. Like one’s sanity, for example.

“I read the online reviews for the hotel.” He taps his phone and reads, “Two stars. The hotel breakfast was a disgrace. Eggs were runny, the bread tasted stale.”

“It was probably sourdough.”

“Doesn’t matter, you’re my publicist. You could have booked a nicer place.”

“It’s the best hotel in town. I got you the only suite they have.”

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