Page 56 of Shortcake
“What are you doing?” Harper hissed, dipping out of my hold.
“Youare going over there to make friends.”
“Like hell I am!”
I sighed and folded my arms. “Look, I can’t force you. But wouldn’t you rather start school in September knowing some of the kids around town? Wouldn’t it be nice to make friends and have some people to hang out with this summer? Not just me and your dad.”
She shifted her gaze to the small group of kids her age. I was getting through to her. Slowly, but surely. She bit her lip again. “But… I’mgrounded.”
Dammit. I forgot about the grounding thing. Did this really count as breaking the rules though? Talking to a group from a freaking book club? “Your dad will be fine with it.” I waved away her concern, even though I wasn’t entirely sure of that fact, myself. “It’s practically homework hanging out with these kids.”
“You’ll go to bat for me with Dad when he finds out?”
When, not if, I noted. I fought my grin. She was definitely a better kid than I was at her age because I would have hidden the fact from my mom as long as I could. Then again, I wouldn’t have been caught dead joining a book club even though I loved to read. Teenagers are stupid sometimes. “I can handle your dad.”
Truthfully, I hoped there would be nothingtohandle.
She released a breath. “What do I even say when I go up to them?”
“Want me to come introduce you?”
Her face twisted from being nervous to horrified. “What? God,no.”
“Ouch.” I clutched my chest.
“I just mean… it’ll look so dumb if they think I need someone like you to be my crutch.”
I nodded, fully understanding what she meant. As cool as I was, and I was pretty fucking cool, there was nothing lamer than a kid who needed a parental figure to walk them over somewhere and be a buffer.
“Okay. So just go up to them and say you heard they have a book club for summer reading. Then ask if there’s room for one more. I’ll come get you in fifteen minutes so that you can exit and be too cool to be able to stay. So it doesn’t look like you had nothing better to do today, you know?”
“But—”
“Don’t think! Just go!”
I gave her shoulders a little push and it was all she needed. I stood there staring for a few seconds as she walked up to the group of five kids. If she was nervous, it didn’t show other than the small tick she had of picking at her nail polish.
After a couple of seconds, I turned, staying within sight of her, but wandering the sales tables, my attention split between reading the descriptions of books and stealing glances at Harper as she talked and laughed and made friends.
Elijah came over to me, eying his son chatting with Harper across the room.
He and I had been friends for years, despite our age difference. He had frequented my bar during his divorce, coming in for a beer on the nights his cheating ex-wife had Adam. He was the reason I started cooking in the crockpot at the bar, even before I owned the place. I was pretty sure that without my crockpot chili, Elijah wouldn’t have eaten dinner on those nights at all. Other than maybe a hot pocket later when he got home.
He was probably in his early forties, handsome and fit with tattoos, tailored clothes, and fashionable black rimmed glasses. Adam looked almost exactly like him. A carbon copy of Elijah’s younger days before wrinkles adorned his face and gray peppered the edges of his hair and beard.
But despite being a good-looking guy, I’d never been interested. And judging by his ex-wife’s affinity for pearls and cardigans, I was pretty sure I wasn’t his type either.
“So, who is this new girl that my son’s chatting up?” he asked. “Do I need to be worried?”
“Define worried,” I joked. “She’s the new sheriff’s daughter.”
“Really? And you’re what… on babysitting duty for a sophomore in high school? Do I need to call the sheriff and tell him about the time you got caught selling vintage Playboys and Playgirls out of your locker?”
I groaned. “How did you hear about that?! We weren’t in high school together.”
Elijah grinned. “My ex-wife was a teacher at the high school, remember?”
I laughed and dropped my face into my hands. “Hey! It’s not my fault that the guy at the flea market didn’t card me.” I had no regrets. I’d gotten two boxes of those vintage magazines for ten bucks… I made a killing.
