Page 41 of Mountain Daddy

He checks a clock on the wall. Frowns. “Fifteen minutes. But Mama will tell you.”

The way he says “Mama” gets me curious. I don’t know why. But I’d like to see who he belongs to.

“You work here alone often?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Rosa's supposed to be here. She's always late. She’s a busy writer.”

As if summoned, the front door chimes again. A woman rushes in—mid-twenties, wild curly hair escaping from a messy bun.

“Sorry, sorry!” She's breathless. “The muse struck at three Aa.m. and I completely lost track of time.”

She notices me and stops. Takes in my size, the ink crawling up my neck, the way I fill the space.

“Oh. Um. Sorry, we're not quite?—”

“I told him,” the boy interrupts.

The woman—Rosa—ruffles his hair. “Good man, Chleo. Where's your mom?”

Chleo. The name hits me like déjà vu for no reason.

“Pantry,” Chleo explains. “She’s getting sugar.”

Rosa nods, ties an apron around her waist. “Right. Well, I can help if you'd like to wait, sir. Though fair warning—I'm much better with words than pastries.”

“You're a writer?” I ask.

She blushes. “Romance novels. Escapist stuff, really. But it pays for coffee and rent.” She gestures around the bakery. “This is just for extra cash. And because Chleo's mom is basically family.”

Chleo tugs on her apron. “Can I take his order?”

“Of course.” Rosa steps back, lets the kid take point.

Chleo straightens his shoulders. All business. “What would you like?”

I lean against the counter, bring myself closer to his eye level. “What do you recommend?”

He considers this seriously. Weighs options like he's negotiating arms deals instead of baked goods.

“Mom makes the best scones. Lemon ones are my favorite.” He pauses, then tilts his head, stares right into me. “But you might like chocolate. You’re old. Old people like chocolate.”

Christ. This kid reads people at this age?

“You're very observant,” I tell him.

“Mom says it's important to notice things.”

Smart mother. Teaching her son to be aware. To be careful.

But there's something else. The way he holds himself. The tilt of his chin when he's thinking. The exact shade of his eyes.

Grey-green. Like looking in a mirror.

My chest tightens. Blood pounds in my ears.

No. Coincidence. Kids can look like anyone.

But the pull I felt walking in here. The recognition. The way he doesn't flinch from me.

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