Page 46 of Fated to the Grumpy Dragon
“Emma.”
I realized I’d been quiet for some time, lost in my own thoughts.
“Me. Who am I,” I whispered. “My name is Emma Whitson, but you know that, I guess. I work—worked—at a place called The Hunt Station. It was a tiny little eatery in my tiny little crossroads town. Half a dozen tables. A gas station with two pumps. A couple of shelves and a fridge with various basic goods, mostly stocked from locals. Milk, eggs, cheese, that sort of thing.”
“You owned it?”
“No, not at all. I just worked the tables and the kitchen on the slow days. Jesse worked there on the weekends and holidays.”
“Sounds cozy,” Rhyse said.
“It was. All wood construction. Lots of hunting decor. That sort of thing. We didn’t do anything fancy. Even the food was basic. Eggs. Sandwiches. Burgers. Steaks. Every Thanksgiving, Jesse would do up a turkey. Sometimes, I baked cookies to sell for dessert.”
Rhyse was nodding along, but the creases between his forehead deepened with every sentence.
“What? Why are you looking at me that way?”
“It doesn’t sound like you,” he said. “You’re far too polished, too refined, to have grown up like that.”
“I didn’t,” I admitted. “That was my dad’s hometown. He moved back there after …”
“After what?” Rhyse pushed after a minute, giving me time to process.
“My mother.” I took another sip. The cocoa was only warm by now.
“Here. Give me that.”
Rhyse took the mug from me and held it over one palm. Flames flickered to life, warming the mug and the liquid within.
“Now,that’shandy,” I muttered.
Rhyse chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” I asked when he continued to snicker to himself.
Arching an eyebrow, he held out his hand. “That’shand-y?”
I groaned. “Seriously?”
“Absolutely.”
Shaking my head, I accepted the rewarmed mug and took a sip. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, gesturing for me to continue.
I licked my lips, nodding slowly. “My mother passed away about a decade ago, I guess. Nine years to my memory but closer to ten, apparently.”
“I’m sorry. Losing a parent is never easy.”
Filing away the heavy note in his voice for later discussion, I bobbed my head once. “Yeah. It wasn’t. The cancer made it even worse. It broke my dad.”
Rhyse looked ready to leap across the gap, to put an arm around me, to hold me, whatever he thought might help ease the pain of the memory. To his credit, though, he stayed seated, giving me the space I needed.
“He stayed strong the entire time,” I said. “But I could see it in his eyes. He was fading. Retreating from the world. When shedied, he told me he couldn’t stay in their house anymore. He sold it and moved back to his hometown.”
“Did that help?”
I shook my head. “He was never the same. Five years to the month after she went, I got the phone call he’d passed away. They found him in the one thing he’d kept of hers, a rocking chair. Their wedding photo in his hand. They say it was a heart attack, but I know the truth. It was a broken heart. If she wasn’t in the world, he didn’t want to be there either.”
